More Than A Myth
by KaylaTM
Summary: [SB] 17 year old Buffy Summers has just moved to a small town called Sunnydale after her moms passing. Here, no one is who they seem and things previously thought of as unreal ARE real... AU [Full Summary Inside]
1. Catalyst

**Summary**: 17-year-old Buffy Summers has just lost her mom and finds herself relocating from L.A. to a small town called Sunnydale, to live with her estranged relative, Great Aunt Agatha. In this strange town, Buffy begins to learn about her mother's past, and realizes she may not have known her mother as well as she thought she did. Could it be that the bedtime stories her mother used to tell her, about supernatural beings, were more than just stories? In a town where nobody is who they seem, and where things previously thought of as unreal ARE real, Buffy finds herself drawn to the most foreboding person of them all: Aunt Agatha's caretaker and long-time friend, Spike.

**Disclaimer:** I own all of the BtVS episodes…in my handy little 40-disc The Chosen Collection box set. Oh- But…this is talking about copyright infringement isn't it? Yeahhh—in that case—I own nothing. All recognized characters belong to Mutant Enemy, Fox and the creators of the show.

**A/N**: I just want to give a big THANKS to my praise-worthy beta, Rebecca, for making sense of all of my crazy-psycho-babble. You're the best, Bec!

* * *

**More Than A Myth**

* * *

**Chapter One - Catalyst**

"Tell me a story, Mommy."

Joyce smiled down at her small daughter, a twinkle of merriment shining in her eyes. "And what story would you like to hear, my sweet little girl?"

The six-year-old scrunched up her face in contemplation, absentmindedly looping one dainty finger around her long golden plait. "I like…the one about the brave princess and her pale knight."

Joyce gave Buffy a longsuffering look—but the ghost of a smile that still traced her lips ruined it. "Don't you want to hear another story, sweetheart? I told you that story last night…and the night before…and the night before that."

Buffy immediately turned on her pout face. She had learned early on that no grown up could resist it. "But it's my favorite." She looked up at her Mommy through her long lashes, the image of perfect innocence. "I promise to go to sleep straight after."

Joyce arched a brow in amusement. "So it's either this story…or there will be no sleeping for you tonight, is that it?"

The small girl nodded, completely serious.

Joyce sighed, as if put upon. "Oh, all right. I guess I can tell you about the brave princess and her pale knight one more time. But, tomorrow night it's Cinderella for you, missy."

Buffy nodded vigorously, excited to have gotten her way. "Story time! Story time!"

"Okay, okay. Get under your covers and I'll tell you the story."

Obediently getting under her purple duvet, with yellow moons and stars embroidered on it, the six-year-old wiggled around, sighing in contentment when she was satisfied with her position.

Her mother retook her seat on the side of the bed, leaning over to give Buffy a peck on the tip of her nose, getting a giggle in response.

"Let's see…" Joyce stared down at Buffy, pretending to be deep in thought.

"I'm just…having some trouble remembering how it goes. It's almost been a _whole_ twenty-four hours since I last told it, after all." She pondered silently for a moment, and then abruptly looked up, a light bulb practically materializing above her head. "I know! Why don't _you_ tell the beginning and then I'll take over once I remember."

Joyce said this knowing full well that her daughter's passionate nature would come forth and that the little girl would end up taking over telling the entire story.

Buffy nodded her ascent eagerly, a bright, dimpled smile gracing her features. Then, she immediately launched into her favorite, and most well known, story.

"Once upon a time, in a far away land…lived the beautifullest princess in the whole world. But this princess was not like any other. No! She was special. She didn't live in a castle or- or a cottage in the forest…she lived in Suburbia!" Buffy said this last part with awe, her young mind not understanding the real, dull sense of the word. "And this Suburbia was known as one of the sunniest places ever…maybe even in _existence_."

Joyce raised her eyebrows at Buffy's sharp memory and the dramatic flare with which she told the story.

"And the princess _loved_ the sun!" Buffy broke her narrator persona and added as an aside, "I like it when it's sunny too, Mommy." And then jumped back in, as only a child's inattentive mind could. "So the princess would play in the sun all day and go home as the, um…ducks-"

"Dusk, honey."

"As the dusk came to take the day away."

The blonde child pushed herself up on her elbows to better lean into her mother. In a conspiratorial stage whisper, Buffy hedged on, "Because Suburbia had a bad, bad secret."

She reached up and cupped both sides of her mother's face, her eyes wide and luminous. Joyce couldn't stop the affectionate grin from taking over her face and Buffy gently shook her mother's head from side to side with her child-sized hands. "No, it's not funny. It's the opposable-"

"Opposite."

"It's the opposite… After the sun went down each night in Suburbia, the princess and everybody else had to go inside and be bored.

Off of her mother's questioning look, Buffy explained, "'Cause there's nuthin' to do in the house 'cept play board games."

"Ah."

"But the princess couldn't stand playing stinky board games all the time, so she went outside during the night…and it was like a whole new world!"

Buffy let go of Joyce's face and lay back on her pillow, a quizzical look creasing her fair brow. "But not like in Aladdin…there weren't any genies and magic carpets… There were." Here she gave a dramatic pause. "Monsters."

Joyce gave an appropriate gasp.

"They had big, pointy teeth and yellow eyes."

"Like the Big Bad Wolf?" Joyce asked fearfully.

Buffy, who was now fully immersed in her narrative role, gave her mother an ominous look. "No—worse. They were…vampires."

"Oh, how dreadful! What happened to the princess?"

"Well, the princess was brave and wasn't going to be scared by the vampires, so she went out to the park and danced under the stars and moon…after swinging on the swing-set, because it was her favorite."

Joyce nodded as if this was common knowledge.

"So the princess was dancing under the moon, wondering if it was really made out of cheese, when a _huge_ group of vampires jumped out at her and started being really mean!"

"Oh, poor princess, what did she do?"

"Nothing! Are you _kidding me_?! Vampires are big meanies with cooties! That's why they wear red lipstick and slobber it all over your neck!"

"So, are you saying she got slobbered on?"

Buffy sighed in exasperation. "No, _Mommy_, the pale knight comes to save her before that, _'member_?"

"Oh yes, I'm sorry, honey, please continue."

"Okay…so one of the vampires grabs her by her pink princess dress and is about to slobber red lipstick all over her neck; so she screams, '_H__ELP__! H__ELP_!'"

Joyce winced at Buffy's shrill volume.

"And the pale knight comes to her rescue! He played a game of pick-up-sticks with the vampires and he won—so they went POOF! And they all disappeared like magic."

Joyce sighed in relief and put a hand to her heart. "Oh, good. I was worried about what would happen there, for a minute."

"The princess was so happy that she didn't get slobbered on, that she asked the pale knight if he would like to join her to dance. And he said yes; because the brave princess was the most beautifullest thing he had ever seen."

"Did they live happily ever after, sweetie?" It was asked out of propriety; Joyce already knew the answer was yes.

Buffy breathed in a huge gulp of air, ready to explain, when she suddenly stopped. She seemed to deflate before Joyce's eyes, her green eyes dimming as they flickered in fresh pain.

"No."

"No?" Joyce asked, concerned, hoping Buffy wouldn't have yet another relapse

The six-year-old shook her head from side to side, a solemn look that was much too mature, marring her youthful features.

"Buffy? Why didn't they live happily ever after? What went wrong?" Joyce winced inwardly at her own words, knowing they had hit far too close to home.

The little girl snuggled into her covers, closing herself off.

"The pale knight was different from the brave princess. He could never go out and play in the sunshine with her. So he left her."

"Buff-"

"I'm sleepy, Mommy. Goodnight."

"Wait, sweetie-"

"Can you please turn off the light? Mr. Gordo can't sleep with it on."

Joyce's shoulders slumped in defeat, and then she stood. She was halfway to the light switch when she heard her child's teary voice.

"Why did Daddy leave?"

Joyce turned back around and quickly strode over to the now bereft little girl.

"It's…complicated, honey."

Buffy was not content with this vague, adult response that she kept getting every time she asked. Joyce continued, before she could interrupt.

"But know that he will _always_ love you, no matter what. We both do. You're our little angel."

Buffy, still not soothed by her mother's explanation, burrowed deeper into her covers and murmured, "G'night Mommy."

Joyce lent over to brush a kiss on Buffy's forehead—the only part of her face still visible above the blanket. After not receiving a sweet, sloppy kiss on her cheek, as was their nightly ritual, Joyce gave one last sad, lingering look to her daughter before leaving the room. Joyce's 'I love you, Buffy' was a low, reverent whisper, left unheard by the grieving young girl.

* * *

"Oh. My _God_. What. A. Freak."

High pitched, hyena-like cackles and a few "you're so bad's" carried throughout the cafeteria.

Sitting at the next table, seventeen-year-old Buffy Summers knew the laughing girls were intentionally drawing everyone's attention in a practiced exercise to further humiliate whoever their victim of the day was. She hunched her shoulders, wanting to remain out of their radar.

Someone shushed the first speaker. "Gawd, Christine that is so harsh of you. Her mom just, like, _died_ a few months ago."

Buffy's breath caught in her throat. They were talking about her. She listened on, even though she knew nothing good could come of it.

The table behind her went unbearably quiet, and she just knew that everybody was glaring at the girl who dared to accuse 'Pristine Christine' of insensitivity. In an attempt to save her status, the Barbie clone stuttered, "B-but I mean—I t-totally get what you're saying, Christine. She is _such_ a freak."

Seemingly satisfied by the girl's simpering, Christine continued. "Of course I feel bad that her mom died but _come on people_! There is, without a doubt, something seriously wrong with her. She totally flipped a one-eighty from sane to," Christine stopped to think of a word. "…_n__ot_ sane."

"I know," a new voice answered. "The way she just…keeps to herself all the time…never talking to anybody. It's just weird."

"And her hair. Oh my gawd, she really needs to get a clue. She's got almost a whole two inches of root showing. It's called touch-up, hun," some other unknown voice piped in.

Another smattering of guileless laughter followed, while Buffy's right hand unintentionally strayed up to her hair.

"And those clothes! Please tell me you've noticed _those clothes_ I realize that it's appropriate to wear dark clothing during the mourning period—but there is just a point when enough is enough," said the girl who had gotten on Christine's bad side. Clearly, she was making up for her blunder.

Buffy listened on as the group behind her continued to discuss her rail-thin frame and make-up free face. Staring sightlessly at her food, Buffy clenched her fists in her lap.

It was Christine's next gleeful statement that made her see red.

"I heard that she was so inconsolable after it happened, that her absentee father had to dump her in a clinic where she sat in a padded room for like a month. No doubt he just wanted some time alone with his latest flavor of the week and couldn't be bothered with some teenaged nutcase."

Without thinking, Buffy launched herself out of her chair, bearing down on the gaggle of heartless girls in fury. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself staring down at Christine, who lay sprawled on the floor. Christine's ice blue eyes were wide in stunned shock and one manicured hand was dabbing at her busted lip.

"You…_bitch_."

Buffy stared icily at the angry teenager. "If I'm a bitch…what the _hell _does that make you? Lucifer?"

Christine gawked for a few seconds, unable to think of anything cruel enough to say. "You… You are…_so_- You're just an antisocial freak!" Gaining her wits about her, Christine stood up and smoothed her clothing back into place, ending with a flip of her platinum blonde hair. "Where'd you learn your people skills, Buffy? Charles Manson?"

Buffy snorted. "Funny…I was just about to ask you the same thing."

Christine opened her mouth to retort when Buffy cut her off.

"You know? You're the biggest hypocrite I have ever met. You prance around here acting like you're the second coming, with your nose high in the air and treating everyone around you like shit, victimizing innocent bystanders that haven't done a single thing to deserve it. Yet you have the nerve to tell me _I'm_ a social delinquent? _Everyone hates you_!" Buffy stopped to catch her breath, while a spark of feeling resonated throughout her being for the first time since her mother's death. "They may not say it openly, but every time you say a hateful word you gain an enemy." Buffy gave a cold smile, aiming for cutting. "In fact, if you keep up the great pace, I'm sure the entire student body should loath you by senior year."

Christine's eyes darted around the room. Everywhere, she could see the silent faces of her peers, looking at her as if she were a once precious jewel that, now, when looked at under closer scrutiny, was really nothing more than an insignificant fragment of colored glass.

She could _not_ let that happen.

Wiping again at her bleeding mouth, she managed a pained smile when her saw the fast moving campus supervisors making their way through the crowd of students. Christine knew that Buffy couldn't see the supervisors coming because her back was turned to them.

"…You should be _thankful_ that I knocked you on your ass. Your humungous ego would have managed it sooner of later… And you know what they say, the fatter your head the harder you fal-"

Buffy stiffened when Christine suddenly burst into unpleasantly loud sobs.

She didn't think she could penetrate Christine's conscience _that _easily…

Suddenly, she was slammed down into the table from behind, her arms restrained behind her back while an authoritative voice spoke into a static-filled walkie-talkie, "Yeah, we're gonna need the campus police here. Looks like a cat fight. Got a girl crying with a split lip and the other girl still going off on her."

_Ohhh, this is so not of the good_, was the only coherent thought Buffy could manage before she was escorted by the campus police to the principal's office.

* * *

"Expelled. You managed to get expelled in your first week back at school from your reprieve." Hank Summers repeated for the umpteenth time. "God, Buffy, I just-" He sighed and raised his hands to rub at his temples. "I don't know what to do with you. This is just…too much."

Buffy kept her eyes in her lap, clasping and unclasping her hands.

If there was one thing that Buffy could compliment Christine Bennett on, it was her acting abilities. Her little help-me-that-freaky-quiet-girl-verbally-and-physically-assaulted-me-for-_no-reason! _performance worked like a charm on the principal. The next thing she knew, she had been tossed out of school like yesterday's computer club fliers and told that she wouldn't—under _any circumstances—_be allowed on the Hemery High School's premises ever again.

Of course, it hadn't helped that none of the witnesses could attest to hearing Christine or any of her cronies directly say Buffy's name—so Buffy had had no evidence to suggest that Christine had been specifically provoking her.

_Damn technicalities_, Buffy thought irritably.

"I just don't feel that anything is getting through to you. I don't know how to." Hank struggled with his next words, as if saying them would solidify his status as an unfit parent. "I don't know how to help you. I don't know what it is that you need. The therapy didn't work…and the time off from school…and then when I thought that maybe all you needed was to go back to school, to get back into the swing of things, that didn't work either."

Buffy looked up from her hands, feelings of family loyalty bubbling up to make her say, "I-I'm sure it would've worked. I just- Christine said some things that- I just snapped. She made me so…angry. I couldn't," Unable to get the correct verbiage, she looked back down to her hands, "I couldn't control it."

Hank sighed again, this time rubbing at the bald spot on the back of his head that was ever-increasing—much to his dismay. "I think that maybe what you need is to get out of the city." Buffy's head whipped up at this. "That L.A. may not be the best place for you right now."

Now that Buffy was giving him her full attention, he faltered, looking down as he continued so he wouldn't lose his nerve. "I've talked with your Great Aunt Agatha. And I think—well, _we_ think—that it would be in your best interest if I moved you down to Sunnydale to live with her."

The room grew quiet, and the only sound that could be heard was the gurgling water of Hank's expensive plug-in rock fountain. Which was situated on his expensive entertainment system. In his expensive penthouse apartment. Which was filled with tacky, yet expensive, things that every bachelor going through his mid-life-crisis could possibly need.

Great Aunt Agatha. Sunnydale. Buffy tried to remember ever having met a Great Aunt Agatha from Sunnydale, but couldn't for the life of her summon up the image of any such woman.

The name rang a bell. She remembered her mom having mentioned an 'Aunt Aggie' every once in a great while. So that meant she was from her mother's side of the family.

Buffy let out a disbelieving breath as a vague memory began to surface of the one time she had met this Great Aunt Agatha.

It was at her mother's funeral service—which was probably why Buffy barely remembered her—she didn't remember much about the actual funeral. It had been so…unreal. But she did remember that a hellish, old woman had been set against burying Joyce in L.A.. She'd said that 'Joyce's rightful resting place is in Restfield Cemetery.' In Sunnydale.

At the time it had been enough to snap Buffy out of her daze to witness an unusual looking man with attention-getting bleach blond hair and a long black leather coat—like the ones from The Matrix—escort the distraught old woman out of the line of fire that she had created and into a seat to watch the proceeding service.

Her attention on them had been brief at best and she could not rectify any discerning facial features of the old woman. She just remembered that this Great Aunt Agatha was…well, old…and stout.

But when Buffy had been in a better state of mind—about a month after her mother's passing, when she had finally gotten past her denial that it was all just some horrendous nightmare, or a _really_ sick, not-funny-in-the-least-practical-joke—she had briefly wondered about the woman. Well, really about the woman's conviction.

Why had she wanted to take her mother's body to some ho-dunk town that Joyce herself had never mentioned before?

Buffy's mom had never seemed to want to talk about her past or the place where she had grown up. In fact, if Buffy wasn't mistaken, Sunnydale had always seemed like a sore spot for Joyce. Buffy had never had the heart to push her mom for the information.

So if this old woman named Great Aunt Agatha, and this town called Sunnydale, had made her mother feel ill-at-ease…then she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with them.

Her father had other ideas it seemed.

"It could be just what you need. A small, wholesome town. Away from all of the smog and traffic and hoodlums. Don't you think so?"

Buffy blinked at Hank. He sounded like a door-to-door salesman – insincere and desperate.

"Um, no… I'm thinking it's not. What I need, that is. I haven't even really met the woman. You can't really expect me to _move in_ with her."

Buffy made sure to keep eye contact with Hank. She'd learned that when dealing with her father, intimidation tactics were most successful. He looked uncomfortable, like he knew that a confrontation would be inevitable, but had been hoping that he wouldn't have to deal with it.

Wouldn't have to deal with it.

Couldn't be bothered.

A flash of Christine's cruel words came unbidden to her mind.

"…_No doubt he just wanted some time alone with his latest flavor of the week and couldn't be bothered with some teenaged nutcase."_

Those words had been the catalyst that had set Buffy off. And they had set her off because she was so afraid that they might be true.

Buffy looked down at her lap again. Blocking out Hank's response, she closed herself off. Just as she had learned, ironically, to do at the age of six because of this man. There, in the quiet place inside, she silently made up her mind.

She would let this man, whom she no longer thought of as her father, take her to Sunnydale. She'd check the place out, meet the old bitty, and then take the money that she had been hoarding since the age of ten and go out and make it on her own.

"Okay, Dad." She suddenly found she had to force herself to address him as such.

Hank blinked. "What?"

She hesitated for a second, and then forced herself to answer with a bright, sunny smile. "I'll move in with Great Aunt Agatha."

Hank cocked his head back in surprise. "Oh, well, okay. Um, I'll just…go call her and let her know that you said yes."

He gave her a reassuring smile—that for the most part just looked like good ol' plain relief—and she in return gave him a shooing motion that really meant 'You go right on ahead and do that, you self-serving bastard.'

When Hank was out of the room, Buffy dropped the smile and slumped into the leather sofa.

"Sunnydale… Home sweet home?" She gave a disbelieving snort. "Yeah, right."

**TBC**


	2. Scent

**Chapter Two – Scent**

"I just love the ice-blonde highlights that they mixed in with that honey-blonde color. It is just so…you."

Buffy set down her suede jacket, which she had been in the middle of packing, and looked over to her open doorway.

There stood a curvaceous, 20-something-year-old woman with sheer waves of crimson red hair and full, plush lips curved into an overenthusiastic smile.

Buffy returned the smile awkwardly. She never knew how to act towards the beautiful women that Hank seemed to exchange seasonally.

They were always young. Every single one of them could easily represent the epitome of feminine beauty. And they never lasted longer than six months.

Mandy Avister, in particular, was on month number two and looked like the buxom cartoon character Jessica Rabbit come to life.

_Scandalously high slit dress and all_, Buffy noted.

Buffy waited to see what Mandy wanted, but when all she did was stand there, Buffy turned back around and said over her shoulder, "Thanks…for taking me to the hair salon. It was…nice." She hoped that gratitude was all that Jessica Rabbit's twin wanted and that now that she had it—she would go away. The only reason that Buffy had agreed to go to the hair salon in the first place was so that she could get Mandy off her back.

Buffy really couldn't handle anymore helpful hair/clothing/dieting advice from anymore superficial elitists. She had just gotten expelled on Monday because of one. She really didn't need another one around, tempting her aggressive side like Christine had.

Mandy stepped into the room and made a '_pffft_' sound. "Hey, no need to thank me. Thank Paolo, the stylist." Mandy tittered at her own humor. Buffy was just thankful that she was facing away from the redhead so that she didn't have to pretend to laugh. Mandy continued, "No, sometimes us girls just need to indulge ourselves, get dolled up…makes ourselves feel pretty." Her next words were spoken tentatively. "Any time you need a girls' day out, I'll just be a call away."

Buffy stared at the wall in front of her, remaining motionless, trying to keep her resolve to. Not. Get. _Angry_.

Where did this woman get the nerve? She had never—not _once—_tried to act all buddy-buddy with her before. Now today—her last day in L.A.—Mandy suddenly felt obligated to reconcile a friendly relationship between them? Not freakin' likely!

Buffy refrained from voicing her thoughts and instead made a sound that could be taken as her assent.

Mandy pursed her glossy lips and swept kohl-lined eyes around Buffy's room. "…Need any help?"

Buffy sighed inwardly as she realized that Mandy wasn't going to leave her alone, then shook her head and resumed packing clothes into her luggage suitcase. "Thanks, but everything's pretty much packed… I never really even unpacked after-" She broke off and cleared her throat. "…everything that's happened."

There was an awkward silence before Mandy changed to a new topic. "That's a cute shirt, Buffy. How come I've never seen you wear it?"

Buffy begrudged Mandy's persistence—but took a closer look at the shirt she was folding none-the-less. She shrugged, "I just haven't had the right occasion to wear it."

She frowned when she realized that she had momentarily forgotten that she was angry, and guarded herself once again.

"Hmm." Mandy walked over to stand next to Buffy and inspected the shirt further. It was a white silk v-neck that tied around the back of the neck with two woven straps. Fine Japanese cherry blossoms were the detail found on the white fabric. She'd never seen Buffy wear anything but black. "I see what you're saying. The design and material would be too glamorous for school, while the deep V and bare shoulders and upper back _miiight_ be a little too much for a family get-together." After a beat of contemplation she declared, "Date shirt. Definitely."

"Excuse me?" Buffy was surprised. Embarrassedly so.

Mandy turned to face her and widened her eyes in an 'Isn't it obvious?' gesture. "This shirt would make great date wear… The guys would be foaming at the mouth if they saw you in this little number." Mandy tilted her head to the side, assessing Buffy from head to toe. "I'd say with a pair of hip-hugger denims." Then she added hastily, "Dark! Not faded… And boot-cut! Not belled."

Buffy coughed, not quite sure what to feel. Irritation—that once again Mandy was giving her self-improvement advice. Or anger, again—because, well, that was the emotion that she had been going for…

She settled for a noncommittal, "Yeah…"

Mandy's perfectly plucked brows drew together at Buffy's disbelieving tone and coloring cheeks. "Hey, Buffy, you do know that you're a very beautiful girl, don't you?" When Buffy just shifted her gaze from side to side, Mandy cocked a hand on one hip. "Well you are. Trust me. I only give credit where credit's due. Boys would notice you… If you just— put yourself out there, seemed more approachable."

A new wave of fury suddenly struck Buffy at the added _advice_. She left her anger unchecked in her voice this time. "Thanks, Mandy, for all of your _help_. You know? It really might've come in handy these last couple of months. That is, in between the times when I'm grieving over my dead mother, or dreaming of the nest of tumors that filled her brain and killed her. Yeah, wearing more pastels and approaching boys could've been _just the cure_… Aren't you glad that you waited until the last minute? Does it make you feel like a better person? Like you've done your part?"

Mandy flinched at Buffy's outburst, so riddled with pain and loss. "You just- I- It didn't…seem like…my place to say. You just seemed so…sad. I didn't know…"

Buffy huffed and refocused her gaze on the shirt that she and Mandy had been discussing; and instead balled it up rather than finished folding it and stuffed it in the bottom of her suitcase.

Hank walked into the room just in time to see Buffy's heated action and raised his hands in a placating gesture when she turned with her suitcase to leave the room.

Buffy stopped to look at the real cause of so much of her pain. The entity that had created all of her doubts about love and trust and faithfulness. Her father.

In her mind she heard her relationship with her father reflected in voices, both new and old.

"_Why did daddy leave?"_

"_I heard that she was so inconsolable after it happened, that her absentee father had to dump her in a clinic where she sat in a padded room for like a month. No doubt he just wanted some time alone with his latest flavor of the week and couldn't be bothered with some teenaged nutcase."_

"_I just don't feel that anything is getting through to you. I don't know how to…how to help you. I don't know…what it is that you need…"_

"_Buffy? Why didn't they live happily ever after? …What went wrong?"_

Her sightless eyes refocused on the man who had never truly been there. "I'm ready to leave."

* * *

The trip to Sunnydale was a silent affair. Something that Buffy was grateful for. Mandy had left the apartment to head back to her own place shortly after Buffy's slicing words, while Hank had kept Buffy ten minutes longer to do a double check to make sure she didn't leave anything behind. It was almost as if he wanted to make sure she'd never have a reason to return. Not once had his eyes met hers.

Sunnydale was pretty much what she had expected. Quaint little houses, with quaint little picket fences, that were complete with quaint little manicured lawns.

The house that Hank stopped in front of…was definitely not what she had expected. It wasn't even a house.

It was a freakin' mansion.

It was an old, ominous structure. Darkened with decaying foliage and cracked paint. It looked uninhabited. Something she imagined was perfect for stories about ghosts or mad scientists.

She kept her eyes on the mansion, so that Hank knew she was only acknowledging him out of necessity. "This is it?"

"Yes." His reply was almost inaudible, as if he feared her reaction, and Buffy was disgusted by his cowardice.

_Who is this man? _she wondered_What __did__M__om see in him__ all those years ago_

For a moment, Buffy lamented the loss of having had a father who never cared enough to- Who never cared.

It made her heart sick.

"Buffy…I-"

"Don't."

"But I-"

"Just don't." Buffy turned to regard her father for the last time. "Help me take my bags out of the car. Then turn around and head back to L.A. Be sure to remind your secretary to send me a card on my birthday."

"But what abou-"

"I'll send Great Aunt Agatha your love and make sure she knows that something urgent came up, so you couldn't stay."

Hank's stature crumbled and he gave a despairing sigh of defeat. "If that's what you want, Buffy."

_What I want is my mother alive and well at my side. Loving me._

"Yes, it's what I want."

"Alright."

It only took a minute to remove Buffy's things from the trunk and soon her father was reseating himself in the car.

"I- I love you, Buffy."

_Don't say things that you don't really mean. _"Goodbye, Dad."

* * *

She was at the front double doors, clutching two of her bags at her sides while three others lay at her feet, wondering if she should just turn around and start her life on her own without setting foot inside.

The door opened before she could make her decision. She hadn't even knocked.

"Oh my goodness, Buffy, _is that you_? You're so _grown up_!"

A woman, who greatly contrasted Buffy's blurred mental image, enveloped her in a fervent hug. Buffy was crushed against Great Aunt Agatha's soft, plump frame; with a face full of white wispy hair in her view.

When Great Aunt Agatha pulled back after a time, her warm, light green eyes gazed at Buffy adoringly.

Buffy noted that, though her face was aged with time, the creases only showed as deeper depressions of the laugh lines of a well spent youth.

"You look so much like her. Your eyes… I just- I look into them and I can see Joyce shining through."

"I-" Buffy stopped, overwhelmed by this exuberant old woman who had seemed so distraught and mean-spirited the first and only time she had seen her before. "…Thank you."

She really should have known better than to judge someone's character by how they acted at a loved one's funeral.

But she was just…not what Buffy had expected. She had expected a mean or strict or boring or controlling or cruel little hag. Not someone who greeted people—who were more-or-less strangers—with _hugs_. This sweet, little, old woman couldn't have been the reason why Joyce had resented Sunnydale.

Could she?

Great Aunt Agatha gave her yet another squeeze, rubbing her back affectionately. "Ohhh! It is so good to finally have you here! And now that you're here, I am not letting you go, little miss!"

Buffy smiled awkwardly, unaccustomed to so much physical affection by anyone except her mother. "It's good to be here, Great Aunt Agatha." She didn't let the twinge of guilt she felt at lying affect her voice.

The much older woman huffed. "None of this 'Great Aunt Agatha' business, dear… It makes me feel my age. Call me 'Aggie' or- or 'Auntie' if you like… Do you like to be called Buffy? It's what Joyce called you as a baby. I thought you might prefer it over Elizabeth."

Buffy unintentionally relaxed a little more into the embrace, something inside her softening at the obvious care and consideration that Aggie had put into her arrival. "Yeah, Buffy's fine. It's what I go by."

"Oh good, good." Aggie stepped back at arms length to look at Buffy. She gave a small smile of understanding when she took in Buffy's appearance; obviously noticing what grief had done to Buffy's small body, but not commenting on it…or the absence of her father.

It was something that Buffy was grateful for.

"Well. Let's get you inside." Aggie couldn't keep the excitement out of her voice. "Show you your new home… I had your bedroom set up as soon as I knew you were coming!"

Buffy bent to pick up the bags that she had dropped when she'd been engulfed in that enormous hug, but Aggie stopped her before she could retrieve them. "No, don't you worry about those, we'll handle them in a little while. First I want to get some food into you and give you time to relax. If you're anything like Joyce was as a teenager, then I know that you waited till the last minute to get ready. You must have been packing all morning."

Buffy stood up sharply at Aggie's insight, then dazedly let the old woman lead her inside the front doors. How was it that Aggie knew her mother so well, when Buffy hadn't even known the old woman existed until recently. "But- I- We can't just leave my stuff on your porch…"

Aggie chuckled, unperturbed, and ushered on. "This isn't Los Angeles, Buffy. It's broad daylight. They'll be safe on the porch."

Buffy followed along, not sure if she was reassured.

"I made you some of my famous hot chocolate. It's actually a secret recipe that has been in the family for _generations_. Joyce use to love it!"

Three times. Aggie had mentioned Joyce's name three times in the last five minutes. Yet the world hadn't ended.

"Do you like chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and gravy? If you don't, I could always whip up something else for you."

Before Buffy even realized it, she was seated at a dining table with a cheerful daisy patterned tablecloth and a vase of fresh tulips as the centerpiece set on it. "Um, no, that'd be fine."

Aggie gave a pleased smile and started for the kitchen. "Okay, I'll be right back."

_Excitable old lady…and fast, too_, was Buffy's thought as she watched Aggie retreat, her old-fashioned sundress gently swaying as she created her own breeze. She raised a brow when she realized that Aggie was barefoot.

Shaking her head in bemusement, Buffy turned her attention to her surroundings, taking in the cavernous ceilings that eerily echoed and amplified all sound and the once grand marble floor, which was now scuffed and cracked in some places with age. The inside wasn't nearly as gloomy as the outside—but only because of personal touches like the photo frames set on the fireplace and knick knacks that were placed on dark cherry wood furniture.

Aggie came bustling back out of the kitchen, balancing two plates and a silver pitcher of steaming, sweet smelling liquid.

Setting it down on the table, Aggie clasped her hands in accomplishment. "There you go, dear."

"Thanks." Buffy turned to the plate set in front of her and then turned back. "Do you live here alone?" The question had been niggling at the back of her mind ever since she had found out that she had a Great Aunt Agatha from Sunnydale.

Aggie gasped, as if just the thought of being alone was unfathomable. "Oh no, dear girl! I could never manage being alone in this place by myself. It's much too big. Spike lives with me." The name seemed to trigger a memory, but she couldn't quite place it. "Which reminds me, would it be alright with you if I went to fetch him?" In an exasperated air she continued, "He's always a grump if you wake him up this early…but I know he would be even grumpier if he didn't get to welcome you."

Buffy cocked her head back in surprise. "Oh, so you have a dog?" She looked around curiously, expecting a ball of fur to come into view at any moment.

Aggie opened and closed her mouth in surprise, a giggle suddenly bursting past her lips. "He has definitely been called one a time or two…amongst other things."

Buffy just stared when she didn't get what was obviously a private joke.

Aggie stifled her laughter and went to explain, "Spike is a friend of the family. Thinks it's his noble duty to care for me now that I'm…" She grimaced. "_e__lderly_ Sixty-eight is not _that old_. You're as old as you feel, as the saying goes. So if anyone asks…I'm twenty-five." She winked, said, "I'll be right back, sweetie," then walked across the dining room to an adjacent hallway.

Buffy could hear the echo of Aggie's footsteps become fainter and fainter the farther she went.

She turned back to her plate when the sound died —and smiled in amusement. Aggie had dutifully cut up her chicken fried steak into bite sized pieces and had made a mashed potato volcano—complete with gravy lava—just for her.

Buffy gasped and lost her grip on her fork when she realized that it had been her first real smile since before her mother had gotten sick…

"Bloody hell, gran, that soddin' hurt!"

Buffy whipped around to see what was going on down the hallway. There was a sound of struggle…like someone was hopping on one foot.

"I told you that Buffy was coming today! What if I had asked her to come with me to get you up? You should be ashamed of yourself! The poor girl would have been traumatized if she had seen your- your…_naked backside!_"

"Oi!"

There was a loud thwacking noise. Followed by, "Stop hittin' me with a newspaper you abusive old bint!"

"_Old?!_"

_T__hwack!_

"'m dressed, 'm dressed! Now stop hittin' me already!"

For a moment all was silent. Then, "What about a shirt?"

There was an aggravated sigh. "Let me go bloody look for one. I'll be out in a mo'."

Buffy turned back to her plate when she heard Aggie's returning footsteps, and busied herself with mixing her gravy into her mashed potatoes.

"How is it?"

Buffy started guiltily, having yet to eat a single bite. "It's, um, good. Thanks…for making it."

"Oh you're quiet welcome, Buffy. William will be joining us for lunch in a-"

"Now."

This time Buffy really did jump enough to cause notice.

It was the man from the funeral—sans leather coat. He was wearing all black. And if she was the sort of girl who would care about that kind of thing, she would be self-conscious that they kind of matched. But only if she were that sort of girl. Which she wasn't. Taking her eyes away from their combined together fashion faux pa, she looked up into his face—and suddenly she wasn't just mildly curious about what the unusual English guy, who said some pretty weird words, might look like. She was fully absorbed in the reality.

He was leaning against the wall of the open hallway with his head resting to one side. He was squint-glaring at Aggie with a petulant scowl on his sharply angled face, and his bleached locks were tousled into an appealing disarray that she vaguely felt wasn't his usual style. He pressed his bowed lips firmly together, which hollowed out his already defined cheekbones.

"'s _William_ is it now, _Agatha_? …Wot? You don' like me anymore?"

Aggie fidgeted and sniffed. "You knew that Buffy was coming to stay, and you still kept that- that _inappropriate_ habit off yours even though I asked you to stop."

Buffy looked back down to the table, her cheeks flaming now that Spike's attention was on her.

"'s called a lock, gran. I promise from now on I'll use it and you ladies won' have to hide your blushing eyes for fear of catchin' a peak-a-boo of my bits."

Buffy's blush spread to engulf her whole face and neck.

Spike straightened and started walking into the dining room, heading over to greet the petite blonde who was currently burning a hole into the table with her eyes... It wasn't until he was halfway across the room that he took in his first breath of the day, breathing in the delicious aroma of the sweet smelling chocolate cocoa that he so loved-

But there was something else there. Something…overpowering.

Buffy knew that if she didn't turn around when someone was approaching to greet her it would be rude, so she sucked up her stupid…whatever-they-were feelings and stood to face Spike.

He had stopped walking about eight feet away from where they were, and was just facing them. But his gaze was directly boring onto her. Buffy took a step back without meaning to and his eyes seemed to assess it. She almost felt as if he…was watching her every move; calculating how fast he could get to her before she could escape. His chest was rising and falling harshly with ragged breaths and every muscle in his body seemed taut; ready to spring. Wild ocean blue eyes skittered up to keep her gaze captured within his.

Aggie spoke with concern, "Spike? Are you feeling alright, dear?"

Spike's whole body jerked and his eyes snapped in Aggie's direction. "Huh? Oh, uh, yeh. I jus'…remembered somethin' that I have to go do… Now." He quickly turned around, ready to bolt out of the room.

"Spike! You can't leave, you haven't even said two words to Buffy!" Aggie admonished reproachfully.

Buffy shakily looked over to Aggie, fully wigged about the way Spike was acting, and her reaction to him. It was like her head had grown heavy and her mind had gone foggy. The only thought that had seemed to make any sense to her was…Don't move. She rushed to quietly say, "No, its okay Aunt Aggie. If Spike's gotta go do something now, I'm sure we can always catch up…later."

Aggie would be having none of it. She addressed the tensed figure that was turned away from them. "_William_, you need to be the gentleman that I know you are and turn back around, _right now,_ and greet Joyce's little girl."

Buffy watched, uneasy, as Spike turned back around. He stiffly walked up to her and Aggie, making sure never to make eye contact with her. She could practically feel the restraint he used. His muscles were quivering with unused energy and his jaw was clenched. She didn't want to know what he was holding back from.

A full minute passed before he finally turned to Buffy. "I…'s good to have you here, Buffy. 's about time that Aggie had another bird around to talk to." He gave a tight smile. "Cos as you can see, 'm not very good company until I've had my caffeine."

Buffy nodded numbly and croaked out, "Nice to meet you," and then hesitantly added, "Spike."

Spike gave a curt jerk of his chin. "'s a pleasure to meet you as well, Buffy."

Aggie frowned at their reserved welcoming, but shook it off and turned to the table. "Well, here, Spike, have some cocoa. Why didn't you just say that you weren't feeling too well?" She handed a mug to Buffy who was closest. "I forgot the marshmallows, I'll be right back."

Buffy looked at the mug, then looked up to Spike and hesitantly extended it to him. His throat seemed to convulse as he carefully reached out to take it.

When their fingers accidentally brushed his reaction was swift, almost violent.

"Don't touch me!" he roared as he snatched his hand away.

Buffy backed into the table, watching as Spike stormed out of the room. His mug of cocoa lay shattered at her feet.

Agatha briskly came out of the kitchen, clutching a bag of marshmallows. "What happened?"

Buffy kept her eyes directed down the hallway Spike had turned to. "I don't know."

* * *

Spike slammed his back against his closed door, breathing so hard that he thought his lungs might burst.

That scent.

He couldn't get away from it.

It was everywhere. All around him. He was fucking _drowning _in it.

It had been so long since- He didn't remember what it- He hadn't wanted-

There had never been anything like it.

Her blood smelt of everything designed to tempt him. Taunt him. Consume him whole.

Sweet laced poison filled with her innocence.

_And to have her would be the most delicious sin._

He jerked his head to the side, as if to turn away from the thought.

No. He must not hurt the girl. Her blood was not his to have.

_But it could be. She could not match __my__ strength. __I__ could drain her dry before she even-_

No. Its Joyce's little girl, and Agatha…It would kill her.

He looked down to see blood smeared across his palms, and realized he'd clenched his fists so hard that he'd broken the skin with his fingernails. And didn't care.

He lent his head back and closed his eyes as an image of the girl he had barely known for two minutes pervaded his mind's eye. Her big, sparkling, green, doe eyes and soft looking pink lips. Her cascade of golden blonde tresses. Her lilywhite neck pulsing with hot, crimson paradise-

His cock throbbed painfully in his pants, already imagining the heat of her body surrounding him, even as her blood coated his throat.

He opened his eyes.

"Fuck."

TBC

**Author's note: **So…any questions, comments, concerns? Haha. Please review so I can be all vague and side-steppy.


	3. Revulsion

**Author's Note: **I would just like you readers to be forewarned that my story's rating has been changed to 'M,' so if anyone is uncomfortable with that rating, please feel free to stop reading at any time. The warnings for my story include: strong, suggestive language, small doses of violece, and sexual situations--not nessicarily in that order. **  
**

**Chapter Three – Revulsion**

He watched the hypnotic tattoo of her heartbeat flutter in the hollow of her neck.

She was spread out on her bed, naked and in content repose. Her skin was a pallet of pale gold and blushing pink and pure white where the sun hadn't yet kissed her.

He wanted to paint her red.

Crouching over her slumbering form, Spike raised one hand and lightly brushed blonde silken strands away from her relaxed face. Her eyelids fluttered. Spike steeled himself until she settled back into that peaceful sleep, and then nearly crowed in demonic delight when her sweet, cherub lips parted on a sigh and her head rolled to the side, fully exposing the sinful view of the taut line of her arched neck.

He could practically _taste_ her essence flooding his mouth.

Giving up what little physical restraint he had left, Spike firmly pressed the hard planes of his clothed body into Buffy's soft, bare skin. His duster cloaked her nude form completely, giving off a picturesque scene of embracing lovers seeking cover.

It was anything but.

Spike trailed his long, chilled fingers down her smooth cheek and cupped her neck.

Buffy jarred fitfully, the light, teasing touch breaking through her lethargic haze.

Spike quickly covered her mouth with the palm of one of his hands and used the other to sweep her arms up and over her head. Her eyes snapped open. The calm of sleep was instantly replaced by a tension of alarm.

Spike inhaled sharply, the sudden adrenaline coursing through Buffy's veins amplifying the intoxicating tang of her sweet blood as it gushed in torrents just below the surface of her delicate skin. His gaze regained focus when Buffy unexpectedly went pliant in his grasp, her eyes subdued and her face calm, the only sign of her short fright, the staccato of her pounding heart and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

Spike found himself momentarily side-tracked by the rolling motion of her torso, which crushed her small, firm breasts against his cotton-clad chest and her heated center against his quivering cock through his jeans. He let his heavy lidded eyes shudder close on a primal moan.

And suddenly everything was in reverse. He was the one on _his_ back and Buffy was perched astride him. A small, pixie smile played on her lips.

Stunned by the fact that this petite, human girl could get the upper hand on him, he lay, dazed, and didn't attempt to stop her when she guided him to sit up so that they were once again face-to-face. She swept one warm hand under his shirt and up along his spine, sending shocks of delicious heat to the areas that she touched, while the other hand slid to the nape of his neck, caressing the smooth skin and fine hair that was there.

Her lax grip tightened just enough to let him know that she was to be the one to direct the motion of his head. She tilted his face up so that her bright, jade eyes were unquestionably the only feature he would be intent on watching at the moment. Her gaze was probing, and he marvelled at the ancient wisdom glimmering within such a young, beautiful face.

"Do you want it?"

The area around him grew stagnant and unneeded air rushed out of his long-dead lungs.

Four simple words. Yet the meaning behind them implied so much more than their simplistic design. Away melted the backdrops of Buffy's innocent room, in which Aggie and he had gone to great lengths to insure her comfort, and in its place was an alley. A dirty, dank, nondescript alley. The place of his rebirth. And in place of warm golden skin, hair the color of sunshine, and big, luminous green eyes, stood his sire. His salvation, his damnation. Cool flesh the color of moon beams, silken, midnight black tresses, and dark, cat-like eyes filled with equal parts reasonable insight and quaking madness.

Soft, whispered words that were meant for him and him alone, spoken from a being that resonated lethal grace.

_Do you want it?_

The sharp tug on the back of his head brought him back to himself and his focus was again on patient green eyes waiting for an answer.

An abrupt chill ran through his body, and his icy veins blazed. When asked the first time, this question had changed his life, morphing and altering his world anew. And when asked the same question again, over a century later—by this tiny slip of a girl—he knew it would now be his _unlife_ that changed.

He just didn't know _how_ it would change.

Buffy gently started to lower his head toward her bare neck, and he tried to rear back, to resist the steady insistence of her guiding hands. In the end the temptation was too much, and he could only watch, in slow motion, as he descended nearer and nearer to the creamy, fragrant juncture where shoulder met neck.

_Do you want it?_

He was upon her, his cool cheek resting against the hot, thrumming vein of her jugular. He reverently nuzzled into the heat. Soaked it up. Savored the moist, musky velvet of her unbroken flesh.

_Do you want it?_

Deep blue eyes closed, cutting off one sense only to intensify the other four.

_Hear_ the fast-beating drum of her heart, the shift of unbound flesh against cloth, the short breaths of excitement and submission.

_Smell_ the honeyed musk of her skin, the innocent lust hidden in her secret places, the temptingly sweet elixir pumping through her veins.

_Touch_ the trembling muscles, the slim thighs locked around his waist, the bare skin of her back.

_Taste_. Oh, how he wanted to _taste her_.

_Do you want it?_

Split the vein, enter the stream, and drown in the rushes of her red, red wine.

_Do you want it?_

Lap at the rivulets, don't waste a drop, for nothing else would ever compare.

_Do you want it?_

Drink deep from her offering. Make her his chalice. Make her blood his life.

It was- It was his right to have it.

Spike's eyes snapped open, dark pupils fully dilated around amber suffused irises.

_Do you want it?_

Coveted words whispered on a breath.

"_God_, _yes_."

And he descended to take what was his.

* * *

Spike jolted awake, his dream already forgotten.

He let out a tremulous breath and distractedly ran his fingers through his mussed hair. What had he been dreaming of?

Looking down to his lap he noticed the impressive erection he sported. He raised his scarred eyebrow. Whatever it had been about, it didn't seem to have been _too_ unpleasant.

He slumped against his headboard, scowling in deep thought. He felt like he should remember what he had just woken up from; that whatever had happened in his dream must have been very important.

He let out a despairing groan when, instead of remembering the phantom dream, he remembered what had happened earlier that day.

Buffy's arrival.

"Bloody chit," Spike mumbled. He gave a laugh devoid of humor when he realized how right that statement was. He wanted her bloody, alright.

His stomach cramped horribly with hunger and revulsion at the perverse thought.

Spike fisted his hands into his sheets, willing the throbbing ache in his abdomen and groin to go away. He'd already downed three cups of pigs' blood and gotten himself off twice since he'd raced back to his room with his tail tucked between his legs.

It didn't seem to have taken any of the edge off.

Letting out a frustrated growl, Spike threw his covers off and rose from his bed. After having tossed off his second go around, he had managed to fall into a fitful sleep for the rest of the day, but his internal clock wouldn't allow him any more rest. He was up with the rising moon. Always.

Deciding his energies were better spent pacing; he proceeded to do so, after pulling on a pair of loose fitting sweat pants that wouldn't chafe the delicates.

"What the bloody hell is happenin' to me?" He looked up to the ceiling, as if the big guy upstairs might answer him, then scoffed and shook his head when he realized what he was doing. "Right. Barkin' up the wrong tree." He looked to the ground. "Don't s'pose you'd know, Lucifer ol' boy?" When he didn't receive a reply he continued with, "You're overrated anyways."

The pull of intensity that he had felt towards Buffy's blood, as soon as he had met her, had not abated in the least. In fact, if he was completely honest with himself, it felt as if it had increased tenfold. He could hear her heartbeat echo off the walls of the mansion as if it were it's own living, breathing entity, calling to him.

It didn't make any sense.

It had been so long since he had this overwhelming thirst. Too long.

He'd made a place for himself in this world. Living somewhere in between his vampire nature and Aggie's—and, yeah, poncy William's as well—human morals.

What did it mean when some scrawny bird came into town and all of the sudden his fangs felt a might peckish for something a little—or a lot—richer than pig's blood from the butcher shop?

Was he cured?

Spike stopped pacing to sit back down on his bed.

Did he want to be cured?

He looked over to his desk, where pieces of stationery—that certainly did not have frilly little poems on them—and a few photo frames stood. He traced a picture of Aggie with his eyes. It had been taken two years back at dusk. He'd managed to get into the backyard without dusting himself and stood under the shade of a willow tree to snap a picture of her gardening. It had been candid, not planned out on her part at all, and he'd managed to capture her looking out into the distance with a small content smile curving her lips.

The pinched lines around Spikes mouth and brows softened.

Was it worth it?

If he was cured… Did he want to give up all that he had made for himself, to luxuriate once again in the taste of human blood?

With a weary sigh, he lay back down upon his mattress, and remembered when everything had changed for him.

The night that a demon sought to teach him a lesson, and gave him the 'gift' of revulsion to human blood.

* * *

**Africa, 1976 **

In Zulu, one of the many dialects of the Afrikaans languages, a young man dared to shout out, "You mustn't go in there! The Isifiso Ubasi is sacred! No one can enter his hallowed grounds without explicit permi-"

Before the Afrikaner could finish his warning, a pale hand with black polished fingernails gripped his neck and twisted until a sickening crack silenced him forever.

Spike carelessly tossed the ebony carcass aside. "Sorry, mate, but I don't much care about whatever it was you were natterin' on about." He shook his head and let his gameface come forth, the anticipation of an all out brawl giving him a slight buzz. "I've got myself a fight to win."

Spike stalked on, his stride in no way hampered by the sand, while villagers peered at him from various safe vantage points. His bleached white hair was gelled into spikes and he wore acid washed jeans with a ratty black vest that was littered with safety pins. He was the likes of which they had never seen.

In the doorway of a one room lean-to, a small, dark skinned child looked up to her Umama with wide caramel colored eyes. She asked why the white man had hurt Sibeko. Her Umama had looked down to the fallen corpse of her son, then over to the retreating pale blur in the distance, and had replied to her only remaining child that it was not a man that had hurt Sibeko, but a white devil.

Spike walked on through the village, killing those who got in his way without a second glance. He didn't have to be careful about concealing his true nature from these people. They knew exactly what he was.

At the entrance to the rock cave, he stopped. A tall, muscled Afrikaner who looked to weigh about 230 lbs. stood guard. His strong, bulging arms were crossed in a watchful manner in front of his chest, and he looked down on Spike with unmasked disdain.

"You do not have permission to cross this threshold, vampire."

Spike didn't even leave room for a proper pause to acknowledge the fact that he was grateful that the Afrikaner spoke English. "You think a little thing like permission is goin' to stop me from gettin' in there?"

"No, I do not. I simply felt that I should give you fair warning to walk away from dying what will be a most painful death."

Spike's lips twitched up into a malicious grin. "That right?" The guard gave him a curt nod. "Then I guess I'll just have to take my chances." The guard moved away when it seemed that Spike would not be relenting, and Spike continued to talk to him while slowly walking in through the cave entrance backwards. "I've always been a risk takin' type, anyways. In point of fact…you might've even heard of me. Offed a chosen bird once, I did."

The guard did not blink or gasp or do anything else to indicate that this information affected him in any way.

Spike stopped his backwards stride and scowled. "Come on. It was the turn of the century? Slayer from China killed by William the Bloody?..."

The guard remained resolute.

Spike sneered, "Oh, come off it. I bloody well _know_ that you run with the demon circles. You're a soddin' _guard_ for this namby-pamby _Wish Master_ demon, aren't you?"

The guards' countenance darkened at this. "You will not disrespect Isifiso Ubasi by denouncing his name."

Spike raised his scarred eyebrow and took a menacing step forward. "Yeh? And what are you gonna do 'bout it?" He gave the onyx-colored man an appraising glance. "You know that I could kill you where you stand."

The guard looked at Spike with clear dislike and turned back to his post, while saying dismissively over his shoulder, "Your arrogance will be your downfall."

Spike narrowed his eyes at the silhouette of the guard and contemplated whether to eat him now or later. He straightened and turned away from the man. _I'll need blood to subside my hunger after this_, he thought. _I'll start with him_.

As he swaggered down the path leading to the heart of the cave, the walls on either side of him narrowed until only one man could possibly be comfortable navigating the passage way. There was no light. No fancy wall sconces or torches to set the ambiance. Just darkness. And then, after taking a curved turn, there was a sudden abundance of dazzling light and an abrupt wide rift of open space.

_The Wish Master's domain_, Spike silently assessed, then added in defiance, _Still think it's a poncy name._

He walked into the center of the large, circular room, made out of dark stone, and did a few turn-abouts. Everywhere he looked he was met with nothing but cold stone. The only exceptions being the reed torches and glittering diamond fragments encrusted in the walls.

"I could do without the dramatics, Wish Master. I know you're here."

Silence met his reply.

Spike would not be deterred. "Look. Bugger your '_permission_' policy. I heard from dark, seedy sources that your tasks of strength and endurance, and fuck knows a lot of other things that all sorts of nasties praise you for, are the toughest to face." Spike popped his neck and shook out his limbs, readying for a fight--boxer-style. "So I've come here, and I'm gonna get my dance." As if an afterthought, he added, "Oh, and eternal glory. Heard that comes hand in hand with winnin' this thing."

Still, no one answered.

Spike let out a warning growl. "'m stayin' _right here_ until someone services my needs. So it's your call, _Isifiso Ubasi_." He gave the room a perfunctory sweeping glance when the room remained silent. "You know…you've got a real nice pad, here." He nodded his head as if coming to a decision. "Yeh. I wouldn't mind stayin' on what's considered holy grounds. And then there's also the abundant supply of tasty villagers… So, hey, looks like you might be findin' yourself with a new roomie. That is unless you'd jus-"

"You talk too much."

Spike smirked and slowly turned to greet the newcomer. "'s a part of my charm. But if you're not lookin' for a good conversationalist we could always-"

Hot, blinding pain exploded in his jaw and the back of his head when he hit the stone wall from the impact of the blow. Spike licked the blood off his lip where he had accidentally bit through it and quickly rose to his feet. He gave a whoop of manic glee. "Fightin' dirty, huh?" His amber eyes shone with a thrill for the violence to come. "Good."

Spike crouched into a fighting stance and assessed his opponent.

First thing Spike noticed was that the demon was three feet taller than him. Second thing he noticed was the demon was all muscle. Third thing he noticed was that all of this muscle was protected by black plate-like armor. And everything after that was unimportant.

"You ready to dance, twinkle-toes?"

The demon looked at Spike with confusion. Well, at least Spike _thought _it was confusion, because the black plates where eyebrows should be, shifted into what resembled a furrow.

_Good. Big and dumb_, Spike mentally deduced.

The armored demon charged at Spike without further preamble, and Spike stood still until the last second, quickly moving out of the way just in time so that the demon crashed into the wall. Chunks of rock crumbled off where the demon made impact; and Spike could almost swear the ground shook a little.

He pursed his lips and gave a long, low whistle. "That wasn't too bright, now, was it?"

The massive demon instantly sprang back up to its feet with a snarl of outrage. "Won't happen again."

"You're right, Rocky, it won't happen again. Cos from here on out, _I'll_ be the one rainin' down the blows." Spike gave a derogatory smirk. "Not some motionless wall."

And the intense mood of battle to the death instantly ripped through the air, bringing both demons to their inner-most feral state.

Spike let out a bestial snarl and smoothly dropped down to kick the demons' thick legs out from under it, quickly assessing its' form to see if there was any flesh left unprotected by the seemingly impenetrable armor. He wasn't having any luck. Every inch of the demons skin was protected with the hard, oil black coating.

Spike shoved his foot into its' stomach so hard, it would have gone clear through a lesser being. "Well, mate, looks like you've got a bit of an-" He kicked the demon back down when it tried to get up, and kept on aiming blows at it's plated stomach and face. "Advantage, here. How 'm I s'pose to kill your arse when your hides too thick for me to get to it?"

The demon swiftly gripped one of Spike's ankles with a crushing force and pulled. "You're not." Spike went down with a strained '_oomph' _and fell on his back. His eyes widened and he rolled just enough for the demon's deadly blow to strike his right shoulder instead of his face. He held back an agonized cry when bone crushed and splintered.

_Right. Tucker the bugger out; and do not let it get into striking distance. _Spike thought for his plan of action.

The fight went on, and nothing Spike did seemed to keep the demon down for long. His punches were useless against the demon's armor, and knocking it down repeatedly only aggravated it further. What seemed like hours of this passed, and Spike was finding himself slowing down. One side of his face was smashed into a bloodied pulp, and at least half of his ribs were broken. The demon had just thrown him against the opposite side of the room, and he unsteadily reached up to pull himself up. Through his good eye, Spike noticed a torch just above his head. He painfully reached up for it, rattled breaths hissing through his teeth when it put further strain on his immense injuries, and turned around with his new, feeble defense in his hands.

The demon's step faltered. Spike looked down to the firey object and back to the now hesitantly approaching demon.

And then it clicked.

_Oil black armor, huh? _Spike brandished the torch in front of him, and with a renewed burst of energy, advanced.

The demon had stopped coming forth at this point and instead was slowly inching backwards.

"Hey, there, Slick, where the hell do you think _you're_ goin'?"

The demon was swiftly backtracking now; it's black, beady eyes flicking to the entrance that Spike assumed it came out from.

Spike narrowed his eyes when the demon fully turned around and went into an all out run. Spike fiercely whispered, "I don't think so," and threw the torch with his less injured left arm. He watched as it revolved, the flame streaking into circles, and then arcing to hit its target. The flame touched the demon's back for all of a moment, but it was enough to ignite.

"Some-one's high-ly flam-ma-ble," Spike sing-songed as he watched the small lick of flame streak up and out to engulf the demon's precious oiled armor. The demon gave a ear-splitting shriek of torture and heavily fell to it's knees. Spike looked on in wonder as spectacular blue-black flames enveloped the fallen demon, and gave a coo of delight like a child witnessing a fireworks show, when the oddly colored flames burst up to the tall, stone ceiling and just as suddenly died down with nothing left of his opponent except smoking ash.

Spike gave a liberated breath of laughter. "I win," He stopped when he sniffed the odor in the now smoke-filled air. "And you smell fuckin' rancid."

With the fight now over, Spike let out a sigh when the infectious adrenaline started to quickly fade to let all of the pain come forth. It hadn't been _too_ bad, he'd been through worse things—most on account of his dark princess getting barmy ideas that left them nearly on the brink of the more permanent sort of death—but this fight _had_ worked him hard.

He straightened and looked to the entrance when he heard foot steps approaching. A loud, rumbling noise was emanating from whoever was coming nearer. And suddenly he realized that this fight wasn't over. Not by a long shot. The demon he had just killed was one of many to come.

A creature, about the same height as he, stepped out. It had long, needle-thin nails that looked like the perfect thing to use for impaling. As it stepped further into the room it's rumbling noise turned into a serpentine hiss. On opening it's mouth, Spike was given a very purposeful view of the long black tube-like tongue that had a pointed tip that it most likely used to slice through flesh with.

A very morbid image of that tongue cracking through his skull and sucking out his brains came to Spike's mind. He gave a slight grimace that quickly gave way to determination to see this fight through.

"Guess it's time for round two then."

* * *

There was an earth-shattering roar accompanied by the crunching and squelching noises of one being dealt a fatal stab wound. Spike pulled the razor sharp horn out of where he had rammed it into the red, scaly demon's chest cavity. It's carcass unceremoniously fell to the floor. Spike weaved, his vision swimming, and let the horn, that he ripped off some demon that he couldn't even remember fighting anymore, clatter to the ground. He ordered the shot muscles in his legs to get him a few feet further, so he wouldn't land on the pile of carcasses he had built and be mistaken as one of them. Once he found a space free of corpses and entrails, he toppled to the ground.

Pain. Throbbing, bleeding, dying pain.

Everything hurt, his insides as well as outsides bled, and he could take no more.

He'd stopped breathing hours, or was it days, ago, because it hurt too much. It made him wonder what others would think of the picture he made. An unmoving body covered in congealed demon blood, a lot of it his own—yet still the victor.

He tried to smile at the notion, but instead gave a dry heaving gasp.

He needed blood.

His lips were cracked and blue and his pale body bone white because so much of his life-sustaining essence had gushed and sluiced and splattered out of him.

He needed blood _now_.

"You have done better than I thought you would."

Spike started. He hadn't heard whoever it was coming. It went to show how many of his senses failed him right now. He slowly lifted his trembling form from the ground, determined that if this was the being that was going to deliver him his death, he was going to go down with bloodied fists and fangs.

When he was facing the direction of the voice, he had to concentrate on what he was seeing; had to make the speckled blurs, lines, colors and planes make sense. He stared until he knew what he was seeing.

It was the guard…and he was lovingly holding a small child within his arms.

Spike's terrible thirst intensified. But not because he could smell the palpable rush of their blood. No, he couldn't smell anything, he was so broken. Just knowing they were there was enough.

The guard walked up to him calmly and without sidestepping corpses. Spike blearily looked to the floor in confusion and saw that all of the bodies were gone. And the next second the guard was in front of him. He reached forth and put his dark, warm palm to the non-beating pulse point on Spike's neck, over his sire's mark. There was a light, soothing sensation, the likes of which Spike had never felt; and now never wanted to give up. But it was gone as fast as it appeared. And all the pain had vanished as well.

The hunger was not.

Spike stamped down on the cloying thought and looked to the guard and child with newly rejuvenated eyes.

"You're the Wish Master." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

The guard looked at him with solemn eyes filled with worldly knowledge. "Yes."

Spike flicked his eyes over the small girl in the Wish Master's arms. Her big, brown owl eyes looked for all the world as if there was nothing left in this world to covet.

He decided it was best to ignore the child for now and he looked back to the Wish Master. "So… Does this mean I win? Do I get my most fervent wish?" He added somewhat mockingly.

"Yes." A slow, relishing smile was building on Spike's lips until the Wish Master added, "And no."

Spike gritted his teeth, deciding for some unknown reason to patiently wait for the fall out instead of running off his mouth as was his normal modus operandi.

The Wish Master continued. "What you have accomplished here cannot go without recognition… But what you have so carelessly done to my people will not go unseen either."

The intense hunger in Spike's stomach was overshadowed by a shocking drop of icy trepidation. The echo of fierce love that had been in the Wish Master's voice as he said '_my people'_ rang in Spike's ears. He decided to clarify, "Your people?"

The Wish Master shifted the small, clinging child in his grasp so that her brown, soulful eyes, filled with tears of sorrow, were facing Spike fully.

Spike didn't have a soul to blame for the way he was nearly crippled by the accusation she held in her eyes for him.

"This is Ithemba. You killed her brother Sibeko. He was a huntsman for the village and the provider for Ithemba's family."

The little girl looked away from Spike, her little heart pounding in over-time, and her tiny form shaking in loss. She pressed her face against the Wish Master's neck as trembling sobs wracked her body.

Spike's eyes glazed and unfocussed. He felt like he had entered some alternate reality. This _couldn't_ be in his normal realm, because if it was…then he shouldn't care about the crimes that he committed. He shouldn't feel shame at the judgment from her innocent eyes. He shouldn't feel _remorse _for what he had done.

But he did. And that pissed him off.

"Tha's all well an' good, but you see…I don' _care_." Lie. "'s in my nature to kill, to feed, to destroy. Jus' as it was in his nature to hunt animals to feed him an' his family. 's all the same. 'm jus' higher on the food chain."

"You did not kill him for food. Nor any of the other dead bodies you left in your trail on coming here. You wasted the lives of husbands, sons, daughters, and wives. Children are orphaned because of you, and lovers were ripped apart. The blood can never be washed from your hands, but your need for it will stop."

Spike, on the verge of retorting, stopped, the Wish Master's last unwavering statement making the hair raise on the back of his neck and a tremble go down his spine. "My need to what will stop?" The defiance in his voice was weak. "Wash my hands?"

"Your need for human blood."

Spike stood frozen to the spot. He was familiar with the words that were just spoken, but he was having difficulty processing them in his brain.

"You will see this as something that you do not want for now, vampire, but in time you will find that it will bring you to your most precious gift. Seeing humans without hungering for their blood will change you. It shall redirect your passion and strength where it is better suited. It will help you find where you belong."

Spike shook his head in denial. "No. No, it won't. I…I already know where I belong. My- my place is with Drusilla." His glassy eyes held the Wish Master's, and a mad, desperate tenor took over his voice. "She won't- If you do this then she won't accept me anymore."

_She won't love me anymore._

"Then perhaps it was never meant to be."

It was as if the world had stopped on its axis. Because that is how much Drusilla meant to him. The world. She had saved him from a world that did not see his strength, his importance. But she somehow had. How could she not be meant for him?

Spike stared at the Wish Master with fury welling in his being. "Fuck this, and fuck you! I came here because I was told that if I won, I would get whatever it was that I desired! I didn't come here so that some Ghandi wannabe could try to show me the error of my ways and put me on a new restricted diet! _I'm_ supposed to choose my wish! Not _you_! I _won't_ let you do that to-"

"It's already been done. You bear the mark of victory on your throat and my gift to you thrums through your veins." He gave Spike a last, parting smile. "I wish you well."

Before Spike's eyes the Wish Master and Ithemba, as well as the cave, vanished and he was left with nothing but the moon over his head and a sea of sand beneath his feet.

* * *

Spike fell to his knees as a villager pressed her hand to her bleeding neck and stumbled before getting back up and dashing out of sight.

The taste was repugnant.

Her blood and the blood of the person before her and the blood of the person before that. They tasted of nothing but sickness, bile and death.

He spat out the remnants of the toxic crimson liquid in his mouth; and wept.

* * *

**New York, 1977**

Spike slipped on the black leather duster; his trophy for killing his second slayer.

"See, Drusilla. Nothin's changed. 'm still- still your dark knight."

Drusilla looked down to the fallen warrior. "She weeps because no drop was spilled. Hasn't she been a good dolly?"

Spike sighed and cast his eyes down. It had been months since his ordeal in Africa, and he had devised this plan to show Drusilla that he was still the brutal demon that she had created. It wasn't going as well as he thought it would.

"Drusilla, you know- baby, you know that I can't…"

"But for Mummy you must." She walked over to the dead slayer, her transfixed eyes never leaving the body. Spike knew what was happening. The strong elixir of the chosen one's life's blood was a siren's call to her. He felt nothing for it.

The raven haired vampiress stooped down and sliced through the fallen slayer's neck with a sharp tipped fingernail. She coated a finger in the gushing liquid then stood back up and walked over to Spike. Waving the bloodied finger in front of his face, she waited until he got the idea and followed it with his eyes. She gave him an alluring smile then coated her parted lips in the red. "Now, give Mummy a kiss."

Spike looked at her pouting mouth and tried not to feel disgusted. He clamped down on his revulsion and leaned in to accept his love's affections.

He turned his head to the side to cut off contact at the very last moment.

He couldn't do it. The stench of rotting flesh and refuse rolled off of her ruby mouth in waves. It was too much for him to stand.

"Dru, 'm sorry bu-"

Drusilla looked at Spike with cutting eyes flecked with amber. "My dark knight has gone. The spirits have taken away his favorite treat and now he is-" She looked deeply into Spike's eyes, something other worldly misting within the depths of hers. "Pale… My knight has paled. And he belongs to me no more. You want to bask in light."

Spike shook his head. "No, Dru, no light for me. The dark is what I want. _You're_ what I want."

Drusilla gave out a moaning wail and grabbed Spike by the collar of his vest and slammed him against the side of the subway car. She clawed at the side of his neck and yanked his head to the side.

There, on his throat, was a symbol overlaying the marks of his rebirth. There were undistinguishable African characters surrounding what was unerringly a inked tattoo of the sun. His sign of eternal glory.

"The light _burns_ you with it's goodness. Do not speak of lies."

She let go of Spike, an air of defeat and final partings coloring her voice. " I can see it. All over you. Whispering what's good and bright. Casting all which is wicked from your heart. The light will capture you and only for it shall you shine."

Spike reached out for her. "Drusilla?"

She backed away and pulled the emergency break to the subway car, bringing it to a screeching halt.

"Goodbye, My Spike."

It was the last time Spike ever saw her.

* * *

**Present Time**

Spike let out another weary sigh. He hated remembering all that had happened to him in those two years—not to mention the couple of years that he had spent drunk in depression afterwards.

He still couldn't make any sense of why he craved Buffy's blood. No one—not even Drusilla—had managed to stir his demon's hunger in decades. And he realized that it was just Buffy, because he had no notion to drain Aggie or the neighbors.

It was just her. Just Buffy.

He was brought out of his confused thoughts by a tiny noise; nothing more than the whisper of a sound.

It was soft crying. The silent, anguished type of crying that couldn't be held back.

It was Buffy.

He stood up from his bed and walked over to the wall that separated his bedroom from hers' and molded as much of his body as he could against it. He pressed one of his ears to the smooth surface…and just listened. After a time he heard footsteps—ones he knew for certain were Aggie's. She quietly slipped into Buffy's room and, without asking, took the girl into her arms and started gently rocking her. Soothing, nonsensical words of comfort past through Aggie's lips and he could imagine that his old friend was stroking Buffy's hair as she shed a river of grief.

Spike pressed a palm to the barrier that separated him from them.

He knew that he should just leave. That he was putting this sad girl into unnecessary danger by just being around her. But he couldn't. He was too selfish.

He wanted to stay here, where he was welcomed. He wanted to stay here, where he had a friend.

And he wanted to stay here…because it was where he belonged.

**TBC**

**Author's Note: **Next chappie we'll find out why Buffy has the sniffles And everyone who reviews will get a cyber piece of chocolate fudge cake because it was my 19th birthday on Sunday and we still have some left! It's really yummy. Mmmm, fudgy goodness. Oh, and if you don't like cake, you then get a standard cyber cookie because you are too hard to please **;P **LOL

Isifiso - desire, wish

Umama - Mother

Ubasi -Master

Ithemba - hope

Sibeko - a name I got out of the book 'Cry, The Beloved Country.' It's a beautiful piece of literature. If you haven't already read it, I highly reccomend it.


	4. Finding Home

**Author's Note: **I. Am. _So_. Sorry, everyone! I really didn't mean to leave this story hanging for so long. But, you know, RL blah blah blah.

Okie-dokie. This chapter blends with the timing of the last chappie, so Buffy ends up coming to her own enlightenment at roughly the same time that Spike did in the previous chapter. I'll just warn that there is no Spuffy interaction this chapter—which probably bites the big one for most of you who have been waiting for an update. There will be interaction next chapter—so send threats and scold me so I update faster than I did this last time ;p

**Chapter Four – Finding Home**

**PREVIOUSLY…**

_When their fingers accidentally brushed his reaction was swift, almost violent._

"_Don'__t__ touch me!"__ he roared as he snatched his hand away. _

_Buffy backed into the table, watching as Spike __stormed__ out of the room. His mug of cocoa lay shattered __at her feet_

_Agatha briskly came out of the kitchen, clutching a bag of marshmallows. "What happened?"_

_Buffy kept her eyes directed down the hallway Spike had turned to. "I don't know."_

Aggie looked to the shards of glass and chocolate liquid splattered on the floor. "I guess he really wasn't feeling too well. He's like that in the mornings sometimes, the poor thing," she explained. With dawning realization she continued with, "He's probably coming down with something and didn't want you to catch it. He's so considerate like that; always looking out for others." Aggie asked concernedly, "You are alright, aren't you? I hope he didn't scare you by yelling at you like that. It was probably just a knee-jerk reaction to keep you from touching him and catching his germs."

Buffy turned to look at Aggie, an all body shiver rushing through her form as she broke eye contact with the place that Spike had disappeared through. "I-" Buffy stopped to clear her throat when she found that her voice was thick and wavering. "Yeah, I'm…fine. I hope he feels better soon." The words felt foreign on her tongue and had sounded robotic even to her own ears because she didn't know if she had even really meant them.

Aggie nodded, somehow having missed the discomfort in Buffy's voice. "Oh, I'm sure he'll feel better in no time." She looked over to the hallway and said in a reluctant voice, "It'd be best to just let him alone for now, though." She turned back to Buffy and wrinkled her nose in a displeased fashion. "Oh, I know I'm being impatient but it's just that I wanted you and Spike to get to know each other right away. I have- I just have a feeling that you two will get along so well together; like two peas in a pod."

Buffy stayed mute, trying to regulate the pounding of her heart. She didn't share the feeling that Aggie had about her and Spike being bestest buddies.

What she could grudgingly admit to, though, was the fact that she felt no small amount of fear towards her interaction with the man. She felt the big kind. Something about him just exuded power. Scary, lethal power. And it wasn't as if it was because of his physical appearance, either. Well, actually, yeah, a lot of it had to do with his sharp, bad boy looks. But, besides that, the fact was that he could only at best be a little over half a head taller than her, and that physical stature in itself should make him less menacing.

It didn't.

There was—something about his eyes. They were expressive clear blue pools that she was sure were holding nothing back from her yet she couldn't interpret their intent. She could have sworn there had been anger and _heat_ within them, overlaid by baffled confusion… But at the same time she felt that maybe she could just as well be off base, and that the guy really was just deliriously ill and in need of rest.

Buffy decided that, on the long run, it didn't matter, because she didn't plan on sticking around long enough to find out anyways.

"Um, do you want me to help you clean that up?"'

Aggie's face broke into a beatific smile. "You are such a sweetheart, offering to help me clean!" She waved one index finger in the air as if coming to a point. "See! That's why I know you and Spike'll get along well. You're good people; pure at heart." If possible, Aggie's smile seemed to get wider and her eyes sparkled with unpretentious affection. "I know I've already said this, but…I'm _so _glad you've come to stay with us. I finally feel that things are coming into place. You wait and see! You'll be all settled in here in no time!"

And all of a sudden Buffy's running away plan made her feel guilt to no end. It wasn't fair that her Great Aunt Agatha was so nice and likeable. It wasn't fair that she felt obvious care towards Buffy. And it wasn't fair that, for the first time since her mom died, Buffy felt that the tough sought barrier that she had built around her heart might someday be able to be eradicated and she could feel lo- _something_ again when she'd worked so hard to feel _nothing_.

Had she really only been in this place for no more than twenty minutes?

"So, uh, where can I find towels? I'll help you soak up that cocoa."

"Oh, really there's no need, Buffy, but thank you for being kind enough to offer. I'll clean this up myself and let you get back to eating your food." She gave Buffy a wink and then said before turning to enter the kitchen once again, "It might seem like I'm being a good hostess but, really, I'm just an impatient Auntie who wants to show her beautiful niece to her nice new room."

Again, the smiling and warm feelings that she had thought long dead threatened to make an encore appearance and chip away at that proverbial ice surrounding her heart.

She gave Aggie a shy nod and turned back around and sat in front of her plate of food. There were still tendrils of steam—which was just another testament to how little time she had actually been in this strange place. She stabbed a bite size piece of the steak onto her fork and raised the utensil to slip the sustenance between her lips.

It was good. It was _really_ good. It was appetite whetting good—and Buffy hadn't been hungry in months. Up until now she had been mechanically eating two to three small meals a day only because she knew it would have drawn unneeded attention to her if she hadn't.

And because deep down, she knew that if she had just let herself waste away, she would have been letting her deceased mother down. Alive or not, Buffy couldn't disappoint the one person that had loved her unconditionally.

So it was a surprise that she really had no ulterior motive behind eating this time. Other than the fact that she found it really tasty, this in turn causing her to notice that she had _actual _hunger pains. She didn't need to force herself to eat for once.

She was one-third away from being done when Aggie came back into the dining room with a broom, dustpan, and some towels.

"Is it good? If you don't like it I could- Oh- "Aggie stopped in her tracks after having spotted Buffy's plate. "Wow, you're good. I bet you could give Spike a run for his money…and he's got an endless pit where his stomach should be."

Buffy blushed and lowered her fork; long held societal habits making her embarrassed about being caught eating at a rapid pace that would be considered indecent for a girl.

"No! Eat as fast as you like, Buffy! I didn't mean to embarrass you! It's flattering, actually, that you like my cooking so much." Aggie set the towels on the table and put the dustpan on the floor and started sweeping the shards of glass into it. "Are you still hungry, sweetheart? Are you going to want some more?"

Buffy had to give a small smile at Aggie's earnest face. She had seen Aggie's countenance when it had been heartfelt and when it had been suppressed against seeking justice at the funeral. Now, in such a short amount of time, she had seen a hyper old woman, as bouncy as a child, act as if she was the one person to treasure most.

_My guilt's gonna eat me alive before I can get away from this place_, Buffy thought.

The smile froze on Buffy's face and suddenly she felt more tired than she ever had in her life.

She didn't want to feel. This old woman had no right to make her forget that. She wanted to be numb and not have to interact in a world that to her had been such a cold place. There was no sense of seeking comfort and solace in good, when it was eventually ripped away from you. That lesson learned, Buffy wasn't going to take it anymore. She was leaving tonight when everyone was asleep, her conscience be damned.

Buffy focused back on Aggie and noticed that the mess was gone and Aggie was peering at her concernedly. Buffy shook her head. "I'm sorry; zoned out for a minute. Um, I'm actually pretty full now. But thanks, it was good."

"Oh. Alright, then." Aggie replied somewhat hesitantly. "I'll just be right back after I throw all of this glass away and put these towels in the dirty laundry." She then gave an encouraging smile. "Then to show you your room we go!"

Buffy gave a few quick nods of her head. "Uh huh."

Aggie turned to leave the room, then stopped. She turned back around to face Buffy, her eyes searching. Buffy had the urge to turn away because of how intent Aggie's gaze was. It made her paranoid that Aggie could somehow delve into her mind and read her thoughts.

"Are you okay, Buffy?"

_No_. "Yeah. I'm just- It's been a long day—well, morning, I guess—and I'm really tired."

Aggie gave her a sympathetic smile. "Well in that case, I'll hurry up with this so I can show you to your room, and more importantly your bed. The grand tour can wait 'til later. Maybe by then Spike'll be up to giving the tour. If we can get him to do it, listen to his accent when he describes the library. He reverts to an upper-crust formal tone. The man's a closet intellectual I tell ya."

Buffy mustered up a weak smile while her insides further tightened with guilt and confusion. Her room. Her bed. _Hers._

Buffy stood up from the table and lent against it, squeezing her eyes shut while rubbing a hand at her pounding temples. She just wanted to ignore Aggie's compassion. Get away from her warmth. Add the turbulent emotions of contempt she felt for Hank and the stricken surprise at her interaction with Spike and it was all too much.

She didn't notice that Aggie was back in the room until she felt an age softened hand gently rubbing her shoulder in a soothing motion. "Let's get you to bed, hun." Her words suddenly turned apologetic and an underlying tone of self berating drifted in. "I should have known that you would be too overwhelmed by all that's happened. I can only imagine what you're feeli- I- And I suppose you don't want to hear any of that."

Thoughts and feeling were inevitable. Buffy had to choke down a sob that had almost scraped through her traitorous throat. She wanted to shout at this woman. Tell her how dare she care about her. How dare she understand and know exactly what to say. All she had done was say a few kind words and given a handful of heartfelt, soothing touches and suddenly Buffy was second guessing if she could make it on her own without this loving connection that Aggie had for her. Because behind all of the numbness and the barriers, Buffy had a fervent wish. She wanted to let go, have the broken little girl inside her find solace and have all of the old hurts and fresh pain go away. She wanted to be lovingly held and rocked to sleep, to be told every night upon going to bed and every morning upon waking up that she was loved and cared for. She wanted to believe in trust again.

But she was afraid. Anxiety manifested and tightened every fiber of her being with black, cloying dread at the thought of letting go and confiding in another the contents of her heart and expecting them to always be there.

She was, after all, left so easily broken when they would go away and never come back to her.

When next she dazedly looked around she found that she was being tucked into an unfamiliar bed. _This must be my bed_, she thought in mild dismay.

She tried to struggle to her feet, away from the nuance of comfort, but Aggie gently, so gently stilled her and murmured for her to rest.

And she found that she didn't want to put up a fight. This nice, soft warm bed felt so inviting, as did Aggie's sweet voice as it bathed her in a wash of bitter sweet memories of how her mother used to do the same thing of soothing her discontentment with a balm of soft, tender whispers. She wanted to bask in the long-missed feeling just once more.

Just once more. She'd leave when she woke. But she just- just needed this once more.

As sleep overtook her, she went unknowing of the knowledge that she had already given a piece of herself over.

Buffy lurched awake with a drag of air to her lungs.

"Wha?" She shook her head, ridding herself of her lethargy.

Fragmented images clung to the forefront of her mind. But they weakened even as she tried to remember them, until all she could recollect were colors. The colors of smooth pitch black stones, bleached-white sands, and clear, ocean-blue waves.

She frowned at the niggling feeling that she should know what those colors represented—and then frowned some more when she took in her unfamiliar surroundings. She fumbled along until her hand met a lamp and she twisted the knob to turn it on.

She was in a room painted in a warm, cream colored earth tone. The paint smelled fresh. It was accented with furnishings of deep forest green, dark gold and crimson red. The bed she was sitting up in was a comfy queen sized bed with a deep red comforter, adorned with golden threaded patterns of flowers and leaves and twining vines. Her eyes jumped from one accessory to another, taking in the beautiful wooden desk with: a work lamp, a brand new compact stereo system, and school supplies such as pencils, pens and note cards; and other things such as the wooden dresser and hung pictures.

Her gaze skittered to the dark green draped window, seeing only the dead of night darkness and quiet just peeking through it.

She jolted to her feet, tangled in the sheets, as she remembered where she was…and what she had promised herself she would do when everyone was asleep.

Leave.

Hastily she sat on the edge of the bed and freed her feet from the sheets, her eyes all the while staring at her suit cased belongings that had been on Aggie's porch the last time that she had seen them.

'_It would've been easier for me if they had just been left there.'_

She sighed, getting up to grab her shoes off of the floor, and then jammed them on her sock-clad feet.

Once she was dressed as she had been when she had come to this place, she started to make her way across her—_the_ room—only to stop as a picture on the wall caught her eye.

When she looked at it fully she corrected herself. It wasn't a picture, it was a painting…and it was of her.

A six-year-old Buffy smiled happily back at her, wearing a pale pink tutu for her first ballet recital, with a plated bun in her hair and a tiny silver crown-barrette adorning it. She was in the second position: her feet together, toes pointed apart, knees slightly bent apart in a diamond shape and her small arms circled out above her head in true ballerina fashion. The colors used to capture the moment were used vividly. The painting made the memory seem more magical.

Her mom had made this painting.

Buffy had forgotten. And not only the painting—she had forgotten how much that Joyce had liked to paint all together.

Buffy closed her eyes to better remember the image of her mom steadily creating life on canvas. As a child she had watched in wonder as the methodic strokes of her mommy's paintbrush shaped beauty where before there had been none. Buffy had been her favorite subject.

Then the divorce had come and Joyce had been a single mother. She hadn't had time for painting and the paintings she had already made were sold so that they could pay for bills and groceries while she looked for a new job that hadn't been a part of Hank's law firm as her old job had been.

Buffy involuntarily took a step forward to be closer to the painting—to be closer to a piece of her mom—but abruptly fell forward as her shoe lace got caught in a wooden floorboard. She caught herself before she fell and distractedly looked down as she bent to right her shoe laces.

The floorboard had been knocked out of position—and a sketched portion of a face that she could recognize as easily as she could her own was staring back at her.

The painting of herself as a child was instantaneously forgotten as Buffy edged closer to the charcoal sketch of her mother's young, beautiful face.

Cautiously, Buffy stretched her hand out and fully lifted the board and delicately picked up the sketch that had to have been deliberately hidden for, at the very least, twenty years.

"Mommy," she breathlessly exhaled as she absently sat back down on the bed after having had put the floorboard back in place.

The sketch was simply…perfect. Drawn by a loving hand. Buffy traced the contours of Joyce's impish smile and mischievously sparkling eyes. Her look was full of love and womanly promise.

Buffy's cheeks tinged at the sketches extreme detail in the features that made it unquestionable that this had most definitely been drawn by a lover. The charcoal strokes on the paper were far too…intimate to have been drawn by anyone else and Buffy recognized that the mystery artist had a different, more edgy style than her mom had had as an artist.

She sat staring fixedly at the yellowed-with-age paper for what seemed like an eternity, just soaking in Joyce's lively spirit that almost seemed to leap off of the page.

After a time, she shifted closer to the lit lamp on the side table by the bed, to cast the dark shadows of the outside night sky away from the paper…

And noticed what had to be words that were written on the back. She flipped the paper over to reveal one line.

_**The one in all the world, the one that owns my heart.**_

She frowned when she didn't find a signature or date.

'_Who drew this?' _She mentally questioned. _'Who felt this way about my mom?'_

This thought snapped her out of her detached curiosity.

Someone had deliberately stowed a picture of her mother under a floorboard in the bedroom that she was now supposed to be living in. Had it been Aggie? And if so, did Aggie want her to find it? Or, had it been the artist? …Had her mom put it there herself all those years ago?

Buffy stared back down at the words on the back of the sketch.

Suddenly she wished she had been more persistent in asking Joyce about growing up in Sunnydale. The paper Buffy held in her hands spoke volumes about a romance between her mother and some unknown lover. But Joyce had always said her life in Sunnydale had been a bore and not worth retelling. Buffy turned the paper back around and reverently swept her gaze over her mother's classically beautiful features.

She doubted her mother's life had been boring.

There was so much she didn't know.

So much she wanted to know.

An image of her mother, weak and bedridden, came to mind and it was so stark and devoid of health compared to the physical visual she was holding that she felt the ache of loss from the tips of her hair to the bottoms of her toes.

A cry that sounded so harsh in the stillness of the room tore from her throat, and suddenly tears wouldn't stop flowing down from her eyes.

It was the second time she cried since her mother's death. The first time being when she found her mother's body when she came home from school and her mommy just _wouldn't wake up_.

Her mother's life was a complete mystery to her. She felt barred now from the one person that had brought her up and nurtured her. The one person who had chased all of the monsters from her nightmares away and had taught her to be fair and always be considerate of other people's feelings.

Her tears intensified until her surroundings were just a speckled blur, and with a sudden urgency she set the paper aside while coherency was still in control. She didn't want to ruin the sketch. It would be too much to lose.

And she gave in to her aching sadness, silently releasing tears into _her _pillow, on _her_ bed, in _her _room. She trembled as she felt a dip in the bed and then a warm embrace holding her. But the tension in her drained as soon as she heard the heart-felt murmurs pass through Aggie's lips.

She could hear her mother in Aggie's voice. See her in Aggie's warm and loving nature.

And it came to her that she hadn't lost her mother. That this elderly woman undeniably was apart of what had made Joyce how she was.

She wasn't going to give this up. She was staying and she was going to figure things out.

Something—her soul, maybe—was telling her that this was where she needed to be. This was where she belonged.

**TBC**


	5. Piercing Golden Eyes

**Author's Note: **I'd like to thank: _**Cordykitten, **__**Jane, Katkin, Nicki, Jen, Toni, Xela, PhotographyNut, Anna, Missytheslayer, **__**Avalon, smlcspike, SpaceLord,**__**vladt, Mali, basiliothecat, Verda, **__**Chouchou, Irina, Piper Halliwell, Becca1806, enchantedlight,**_ and_** Amunett **_for reviewing last chapter! You guys are cool beans **;P**

**And Bec, thanks, as always, for taking your time to look at my writing.  
**

**Chapter Five – Piercing Golden Eyes**

For the second time, Buffy woke up with her mind whirling. She had to blink the sleep from her eyes to catch up with the present, relaxing when she remembered that she was in her room in her Great Aunt Agatha's home.

She slowly sat up and stared intently at the coverlet across her lap, mentally reviewing the only image she could remember of the dream that she must have continued after having fallen asleep the second time—the sleep she had succumbed to after having been gently rocked by Aggie.

Piercing golden eyes.

She could only remember that the disembodied eyes were the color of precious metal, but nothing else. She could recall that they were terrifying in their ethereal splendor; dark and glinting with possession—but softened by the sliver of reverence and awe that had shone through them.

She wanted to remember them always. And if not for the feral-look of them, then she wanted to remember them for their unearthly quality that reminded her of fairy tales and legends.

After a few more minutes of thinking over their almond shape and oddly colored irises, she cut herself off from her musings of her forgotten dream and let out a much needed sigh.

She felt different. Better, lighter and—dare she say it?—happier. The river of tears that had flowed down her cheeks and onto Aggie's accepting shoulder had helped her more than anything else had since her loss. Everything didn't seem as hard and she didn't feel displaced. Thinking of Aggie's smiling face, she knew with conviction that she still had someone that deeply cared for her.

Slowly, she let a smile of her own turn up the corners of her mouth. It helped to permanently add that spark of life to her eyes that had been, until now, flickering in and out like a dying flame.

She pushed the blankets off of her body and briskly got up from the bed. Turning to her belongings, she gave a decisive nod and began the process of putting her things into their proper places in her new room.

When she was finished, she looked down at her baggy black T-shirt and wrinkled jeans and decided that it was time to toss them aside. She rummaged through her drawers and came up with a baby-blue camisole and dark grey yoga pants. Content with the outfit meant for comfort and relaxation, she turned to the side table and paused when she saw the drawing of her mom, her now-prized possession. She picked the sketch up and held it up to the morning light streaming in through her window, admiring the coy curve of Joyce's mouth and the soft curls of her hair that glinted with shine captured by the artist's eye. She turned to her bureau after a time, carefully placing the sketch in the second-to-the-top drawer and then lightly covering it with socks.

Something about it, maybe the intimacy, made her feel that she should keep the paper, with the lovers' one line of verse, sacred and to treasure it like a secret. A secret she had yet to learn, but was determined to find out.

Once she surveyed that she was done preparing her room, she turned to the door, intent on finding a bathroom to take a shower in, taking with her, her morning toiletries along with her clothes.

She walked into a solid wall when she exited her room.

Well, she had _thought_ it was a solid wall—until it had jumped away from her as if she was riddled with a contagious disease.

"Oh bloody hel- I- I'm sorry, Buffy."

She quickly looked up from her bundle of hygiene products that she had been rearranging in her arms and felt her stomach tie itself in knots as the air whooshed out of her lungs.

She had forgotten about Spike. Well, not so much as 'forgotten' as she had 'repressed.'

He was standing in her doorway, reflexively fisting his hands on either side of him, before he finally settled for stuffing his hands into his jeans pockets. His head was tilted downwards almost shyly, but something else…something that looked like a struggle for…control? Words? Sanity? She didn't know—but it made her doubt that he was just being bashful.

With the word 'bashful' her eyes widened and her cheeks filled with hot crimson color when she realized that she was clutching her teal green panties—ones that had cutesy little dark blue polka dots on them—in her right hand. She quickly crushed them into a ball to cover them as best as possible.

'_Did he see them?'_ she frantically wondered. _'Is that why he's looking down? Great… With my luck he's probably just trying to control his laughter.'_

She stood there doing a pretty impressive imitation of a guppy, while Spike, in turn, stayed quiet as well.

Finally, taking a convulsive swallow, Buffy realized that he had said sorry earlier and was probably waiting for her response. She almost winced at how long it had taken her to figure that out.

"That's okay. Um, is there something that you…need?"

Spike finally looked up.

She wished he hadn't.

It was like yesterday all over again. The knots in her stomach constricted to strangling proportions as she felt light-headedness curl all around her. But it only lasted seconds because he quickly looked to a point over her shoulder and her symptoms lessoned.

Maybe _she _was the ill one.

Spike's voice was thick and gravelly when he spoke up. "Yeh, actually, I came here to apologize for the way I acted towards you yesterday. You see, I had a fever and wasn't in my right mind." He gave a shrug and met her gaze again. This time nothing happened when their eyes met—besides the involuntary inner-voice that cooed 'ooh, pretty blue'—so she chalked the other time up to being a fluke. "I hope you can forgive me."

She cleared her throat and nodded. "Sure. All's forgiven. Are you…feeling better now?"

He seemed stumped by this question for a second, before shaking himself and overcompensating with, "Oh yeh. _Loads_ better, in fact. Yep. All's well and fine with me."

"That's good." She gave a nervous smile.

Spike blinked at her, his face going slack. In a dream-like state he observed, "You look so much like her."

The words seemed to surprise him just as much as they did her because he visibly blanched. He trampled over the previous topic by motioning to the bundle in her arms. "I see that you're lookin' for the bathroom." He pointed to the furthest door that went down the center of the hallway. "'s that door there." He stepped further away. "So I'll leave you to it and, when you're finished, Aggie said she'll have breakfast on the table." He gave her a parting nod and quickly left to parts unknown.

Once again Buffy was left staring down the hallway that Spike retreated from.

And instead of placating her, as his apology was meant to do, she was left feeling even more bewildered by him.

* * *

"Oh…_hell_." Spike raked his hands through his hair, making the slicked-back strands spring back into the boyish curls, the way nature had dealt them to him. He slumped into the leather-backed sofa he was sitting on and stared out into the mansion's library—that was, as of now, one of the brand new hidey-holes that he apparently needed to escape to. 

From a seventeen-year-old girl.

He laughed at the ridiculousness, and yet complete seriousness, of it all. It was a laugh of hysteria.

He then frowned at the tremors running rampant through his body and the stiffness of his still-grasping hands. He turned his gaze to stare accusingly at the aforementioned appendages.

They had wanted to grab her, haul her to him and hold and glide over her as he savaged her neck.

'_And why the bleedin' hell was that?'_ he thought, not for the first time.

In the last twenty-four hours or so, he felt like his body had been taken over and hotwired. Jumpstarted to life and crackling with unused energy. Energy that _needed _to be expounded and used to eat up the distance to—

Buffy.

To Buffy.

Why to Buffy?

He thought back to her lithe, sleep-rumpled form and startled green eyes. He thought most importantly of the moment that she had asked him of his needs, if there was something that he needed from her, and how _that_ had been the closest moment. That _soddin' moment_ had almost been _the moment_ that he had taken a life for the first time since his stay here in Sunnydale.

He shook his head in derision. Did he need something from her? Uh, yeh, apparently so.

During their brief exchange the corded muscles and tendons throughout his body had _tensed released tensed released tensed released_ along in synchronization with the siren rhythm of the rush of her blood _pounding pounding pounding_ throughout her system.

He knew what he needed from her. Wanted from her.

Could never take from her because he was too inexplicably loyal and caring of the two women that were her family—one in body, the other in spirit.

And that's what had saved her in the end. That reminder of who her family was. With that beautiful nervous little smile gracing Buffy's lips he saw Joyce and felt shame.

He only hoped that the reminder that she was Joyce's one and only daughter would remain, keeping her safe…from him.

* * *

Aggie looked over her shoulder when she saw Spike entering the kitchen area, taking a seat at the breakfast bar. "Hey, hun. Is Buffy awake?" 

"Yeh, she's takin' a shower."

Aggie nodded and flipped over a pancake to reveal the cooked golden side. She then went and took a mug out of the microwave and placed it in front of Spike. "You best hurry up now and drink that before she gets out."

Spike gave a murmur of agreement and then downed the perfectly warmed pigs' blood. He lulled his tongue along his palate and raised his scarred eyebrow. "Cinnamon?"

Aggie nodded. "I don't know—it just makes it seem more like a breakfast food to me. Humor me; I'm an old woman who wants to make sure her youngin's get nurtured properly."

"'m older than you, Aggie," Spike needlessly pointed out.

"But you look like my grandson, so I'll treat you as such. Now be a good boy and wash that mug out in the sink for me, please."

Spike smirked. "Whatever you say, grandmum." And then frowned as he went at his task of washing. "Hey, but you need to stop runnin' and hoppin' about so much, acting like mother goose, if Buffy is to think that 'm your caretaker. She's gonna think 'm some git that just lazes about while you do everythin' around here."

"But you are." Aggie joked good-naturedly.

Spike gave her a look. "All 'm sayin' is...tone it down a bit. I know that you're as healthy as an ox 'n all, but just let me do some of the things you would normally do so she believes me to be your nursemaid instead of the creature of the night that I really am."

Aggie sighed. "You're right. I don't want to scare her away before she even gets used to living here. And you, I'm afraid to have to say, are a little scary." A teasing smile suddenly lit her face. "So…are you going to take over the duty of watering my plants in the Sun Room?" Spike gave her an 'oh-aren't-you-just-bloody-hilarious' tight lipped smile and came forth with a hand held out. Aggie eyed it for a moment before grudgingly putting the spatula in his palm and taking his unoccupied seat at the breakfast bar. Suddenly pensive, she continued, "I think she got out some things last night that she had been holding inside for a long while. That poor, little darling… I only hope that we can help fill that void that comes with losing a mother. It's truly one of the hardest things most people ever go through."

Spike turned away from Aggie to slip the fully cooked pancake out of the pan, and answered, "Yeh, it is." He cleared his throat, trying to break up the build of emotion.

"What-" Aggie hesitated. "Are you alright, Spike? Ever since yesterday you've been acting strangely. I thought…I thought that you'd be happy to meet Buffy for the first time."

"I am," Spike quickly asserted. "I am. It's just," he paused, thinking of what to say that would at least omit the sinister part of the truth, "I was…startled. Things really sunk in. I had always hoped that we'd get to see Buffy one day. I just always envisioned Joyce would be here with her." His sentence grew more somber at the end when he realized how right that statement actually was.

Aggie gave a sad, understanding smile. "I miss her, too."

A silence filled the room as they both got lost in their own thoughts and memories. They were finally interrupted at the sound of hesitant footsteps coming nearer and nearer.

Spike spun back around to the stovetop. Aggie turned in her seat to face the blonde teen. "Good morning, sweetie. Why don't you come on over here and take a seat next to your Auntie." After Buffy sat in the seat next to her, Aggie waved a hand in Spike's direction. "Betty Crocker, here, is going to finish cooking breakfast for us." She leaned in conspiratorially and loudly whispered. "Don't worry, though. Once you pick off the blackened edges everything tastes _just _fine."

Spike turned and waved the spatula menacingly, glaring at Aggie. "Oi! 'm a bloody great cook! Taught Emeril everythin' he knows. So you just shut your gob, Aunt Gemima, and let Betty Crocker do some culinary magic."

Buffy gave an impulsive laugh at their playful banter, causing Spike's concentration of not looking at her to slip. Their gaze met and held. He put his self to the test, daring himself to look at her, but not to react. He let his gaze sweep down to take in her flushed cheeks and the way she bit her plump bottom lip to stifle her laughter. He wasn't satisfied with his results, yet he wasn't entirely disappointed either—she wasn't dead after all. Even though he was undergoing extreme discomforts, he felt that he had enough of a grip on his urges to at least _appear_ normal.

In an act of normalcy, Spike met Buffy's gaze again and gave her a slow, rakish grin. "How do you like your eggs, pet?"

Buffy self-consciously licked her lips. "Scrambled, please." He nodded and went back to cooking, while Buffy's fuzzy mind finally comprehended that with living with Aggie, she was also going to be living with Spike too. Which she suddenly found she felt fluttery and nervous about, after having been on the receiving end of his charm for the first time.

"So how are you feeling this morning, Buffy?" Aggie warmly asked. "Did you sleep well on the mattress that we got you? The saleslady at the store said that it's a really good one."

Spike spoke with his back to them. "_Please_ tell her that you like it. Her friend Betsey told me that they spent a whole day lookin' for the perfect mattress—and Aggie, here, had acted all 'Princess and the Pea' about findin' the perfect one for you."

"'Only a true princess could have such delicate skin as to feel a pea through forty layers of bed sheets,'" Aggie airily quoted, and then hopefully questioned, "So was the mattress to your liking, sweetie?"

Buffy could see that she was just going to have to get use to all of the kind gestures and extra efforts that Aggie went through to see to her comfort. One of those kind gestures which included how Aggie hadn't brought up that she had rocked her as she had cried herself to sleep. "The mattress felt fine, Aunt Aggie. Even better than the one I had in LA. Thanks for getting it for me."

Aggie smiled in relief, but then looked worried again. "And your room? Do you like how it's decorated or-"

"It's fine, Auntie," Buffy said earnestly. She slightly tilted her chin down as if to indicate the previous topic. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, and the room is beyond what I expected. It's _way_ princess-worthy."

Seemingly unable to contain herself, Aggie rose from her chair and hugged Buffy to her, much like when Buffy first came through the front door. Buffy awkwardly half-sat, half-lent off of the tall chair she was on, but was none the wiser to it as Aggie dotted loving kisses on her forehead, temples, and the crown of her hair. "No, _your_ better than to be expected, Buffy. No, no, don't be shy. Let me lavish you with affections. I half-expected I'd never get to meet you. Love you so much, sweetie."

Buffy's heart burst with warmth at Aggie's declaration. And she thought of how two of her deeply held secret wants had already been met by Aggie: to be lovingly held and rocked to sleep at night, and told upon morning that she was loved and cared for.

Buffy raised her arms from her sides and wrapped them around Aggie, so that her face was pressed cheek to cheek with her great aunt. Buffy was faced toward the kitchen and caught a soft, reverent look on Spike's face. It was full of adoration and starved longing, as if he too wanted to be a part of it. He must have felt her gaze, because his eyes met hers, and, surprisingly, the soft look remained. At that moment she felt a sudden sorrow, looking at this pale, oddly beautiful man, and being desperately clung to by this warm, caring woman. And with a certainty she didn't fully understand, she knew that heartache and loneliness had driven these two individuals to this place and to each other…and now she was one of them too.

Aggie's praise went on. "My beautiful, beautiful Buffy. Isn't she just lovely?..."

Spike still hadn't broken away from Buffy's gaze. He said something, as if in answer to Aggie's rhetorical question, but it was lost in the litany of Aggie's voice.

And unlike the time that Mandy had told her she was a beautiful girl, she actually wanted to believe it this time…and wanted to have heard if Spike thought so too. Because her world had gone completely topsy-turvy, and right-side-up was upside down and feeling numbed to everything suddenly wasn't appealing anymore.

Aggie slowly withdrew from the embrace and gave her a self-deprecating smile and crinkled her nose, "I promise I don't always get so sappy like this, so you won't have to be afraid that I'll try to spontaneously hug you in front of people and embarrass you."

"Lies," Spike dead panned.

Aggie glared at him, and he responded by giving her a genuine smile that made the glare instantly smooth from Aggie's face as if she couldn't hold that expression for a long time anyways, because it didn't really belong to someone so kind as her. She retaliated by demanding of him, "Where's our food? Look at us," she indicated she and Buffy, "can't you see that we're wasting away every second that you deny us our meal? Emeril would have fed us by now."

"Oh," he gave a dramatic pause, "now you've gone and done. You bints better be prepared to be amazed by my," he glanced at the pan of scrambled eggs he had turned off minutes before, "…cold scrambled eggs." He put the eggs on the same plate that the pancakes were on and turned to the microwave. "Right. They'll just be another mo'. Talk amongst yourselves, ladies."

Taking his command to heart, Aggie turned to Buffy and spoke hesitantly, "I guess now is as good a time as any… I wanted- I wanted to talk to you about school, Buffy." Her whole being gave off concern. "I can't keep you out for more than a week by state law. So…will you be okay with starting at Sunnydale High next Monday?"

Buffy internally groaned—but knew that the issue of attending school would be inevitable. "Yeah," she reluctantly answered, "and, hey, at least Christine Bennett won't be there," she added to make herself feel better and to sound more sincere.

"Who's that, sweetie?" Aggie asked in confusion.

There was a beat of silence and then, "Hank didn't tell you how I got expelled?"

With blatant dissatisfaction, Aggie answered, "That man never really told me much of anything, sweetheart."

Spike suddenly set a plate of pancakes and eggs in front of both of them, a sprig of parsley set as garnish on each in an attempt to redeem himself. He had the remaining pancakes—about five or six, she couldn't tell—on a plate meant for him.

Buffy now had both pairs of eyes giving her their full attention. She squirmed in her seat. "I kind of, sort of…punched her. Bu-but only after she called me a nutcase that no parent would want to have to deal with," she added as an appeal to her case.

The room was silent.

And then.

Indignant anger.

"I hope you bloody well knocked her lights out, pet! Made her see lil' birdies swim 'round her head!"

Aggie vigorously nodded. "Yeah. I saw this nifty combo on WWF the other night. Spike, do you remember which one I'm talking about? It went sort of like…"

Buffy stared at their comical display incredulously.

And then smiled.

* * *

After breakfast Aggie and a reluctant Spike had given Buffy the tour of the mansion as Aggie had said they would the day before. They had gone through everything down-stairs first, showing her the sitting room and formal dining room, the corridor that led to the three bedrooms—Buffy and Spike's bedrooms on one side, Aggie's on the other—the two bathrooms located downstairs, the modest-sized library, and even a ball room that was built by the original owners with the intent of regal entertaining. Less of the upstairs had been shown, because Aggie admitted, there wasn't much going on up there except dust bunnies because they really didn't have any use of all of the space. But she and Aggie had gone up anyways, Spike having evasively said that he had needed to make an important phone call and had left for his room. Aggie had shown her the room that she used to make and store her embroidering and quilts that she did as a hobby, and also a room that's ceiling and outward wall was made completely of glass, giving it the name, The Sun Room, which faced out to show the enchanting wildness of Aggie's garden. 

The garden which she and Aggie were now viewing from one of the stone benches outside.

There were flowers of every color. Some Buffy knew the names of, such as buttercups, daffodils, roses, tulips, and violets, but most were exotic flowers that she hadn't seen before. A pond, filled with smooth white stones at the bottom, was the main feature that had foliage bordering around it just to the point of overgrowth, which made the garden all the more natural and free. There were vine and flower entwined trellises bordering the fences, an herb garden, and a dominating ancient willow tree that provided endless bounds of shade. It was a chaotic beauty that made Buffy's eyes jump from one thing to another and back again.

"I have a surprise I want to show you," Aggie suddenly spoke, a sound not unlike childish eagerness coloring her voice.

Buffy slowly turned away from the beauty of Aggie's garden to look at Aggie questioningly.

"Well," Aggie amended, "at least _I think_ it will be a surprise for you. I don't think Joyce ever told you about it, and I know you certainly have never been there…"

Her curiosity peeked, Buffy anxiously asked, "My mom never told me about where?"

A secret smile played indulgently upon Aggie's mouth. "Well, it's a place that I guess you could say was…her own."

Suddenly, there was a clamoring inside Buffy that never wanted anything more than this feeling she had to go and see wherever it was that Joyce held special.

"Take me there?"

**TBC**


	6. Spun Sugar and Warm Apple Tarts

**Author's Note: **Smooches to: **Cordykitten,**** Katkin, Riahannon, Anna, PhotographyNut, albie, Jin, ****Angi,****Avalon, smlcspike, vladt, Irina, basiliothecat, Verda, Akela, lilred-07, enchantedlight, and Slayer918**. Thanks so much for reviewing!

**Author's Blooper: **Oh, look! A bird! Kayla goes back to chapter two and changes Aggie's age from seventy-eight to sixty-eight Ah man, looks like you just missed it. It was a magnificent specimen, too. It looked like it might have been the most wondrous Blue Footed Booby seabird. Better luck next time.

If there is a site where Aggie's age hasn't changed to sixty-eight…just _pretend_ that it did for me, please. It's a plot thing. Pets the Booby Good, Booby, distracting all of the lovely people reading this. _Good, _Booby.

**Chapter Six – Spun Sugar and Warm Apple Tarts**

When Aggie had said that she was going to show Buffy a place that had been Joyce's own, Buffy had thought that maybe there had been a room in the mansion that Aggie had saved to show her last.

When Aggie had instead fetched her purse and rummaged through it for her keys and a pair of glasses, she found out otherwise.

Aggie ushered her out of the front door and out of the front drive to a parked car on the side of the street. It was an ugly, huge black hunk of metal with what looked like black chipped paint in the edges of all of the windows.

Buffy frowned at it, but didn't comment—because she had quickly learned that Aggie and Spike were an odd pair and it was easier to just expect the unexpected and unconventional. She delicately sat herself in the front passenger seat and glanced over to Aggie in the driver's seat. She had put on the pair of silver, oval-shaped glasses, and Aggie, noticing where Buffy's attention was, explained, "These are my driving glasses. I don't have terrible eyesight or anything, my doctor just thought that it was best as a precaution with my," she gave a listless sigh and rolled her eyes, "advancing age. I promise I'm not a bad driver, if that's what you're thinking."

That's exactly what Buffy had been thinking. Wasn't Spike supposed to do things like driving Aggie around? That's what caretakers did, right? Drive their old blue hairs around so that the rest of the populace didn't have to suffer driving behind the old lady that went 20 miles an hour in a 30 mile an hour zone.

Her voice sounded embarrassed as she had brought it up. Aggie just laughed and told her that she was old—not disabled. She said Spike took care of her to a certain extent, like helping her with heavy lifting and things like that, but otherwise she was fully capable of handling herself—but sometimes he did overly coddle her, she had admitted petulantly.

"Spike's more of like," Aggie stopped and thought of the proper words, "a roommate. He's my best friend, and I happen to live with him." During the conversation they made their way out of Crawford Street. Aggie gave an affectionate laugh. "I think that he's more worried that you'll think he's a lazy bum, rather than he's worried about having to help me out." Her face sobered and she spoke with respect as she smoothly zipped through the street lanes, "He's anything but useless, though."

Buffy waited for her to elaborate but she didn't. So instead Buffy turned to her window and watched the scenery of Sunnydale pass her by, curiously noticing the abundance of cemeteries in the small town. They were like Starbucks or McDonalds here, there were so many.

When finally they came to a stop, Buffy guessed they had to be in downtown Sunnydale. They were parked in front of a pay meter, facing dozens of shops that went up and down on both sides of the street. Buffy let her eyes roam, taking in the boutiques and cafés, clothing stores and hair salons. People were all about, totting shopping bags or small children along, briskly walking towards their next destinations, with a subtle hint of tense urgency quickening their paces.

Buffy frowned at that bothering detail, feeling a chill ripple across her skin as something…unwanted and sinister seemed to give off an unshakable presence over the sunny town.

Aggie walked in front of her, the glasses gone. "It's just this way." She beckoned Buffy to follow along.

Buffy took one more sweeping glance around, trying to figure out why the setting of this place seemed so…familiar to her, when she knew for a fact that she had never been here a day in her seventeen years of life. She mentally shook herself of the thought and walked along with Aggie.

They stopped in front of a shop whose glass windows and door were covered in black from the inside, letting no hint as to what lay within. Buffy looked speculatively at the closed-off looking space, her gaze landing on the white script that was etched onto the door.

_J. Lowan's Art Gallery_

It was a simple and unremarkable statement, yet to Buffy it was a precious secret unlocked.

Lowan was her mother's maiden name.

Her mom had been the owner of an art gallery.

Something bitter and cruel burned within her stomach when she realized that the black must have meant that it had been closed down at some point.

She walked closer to the lettering, forgetting that she was on a busy walkway, forgetting that there was anyone at all around her, and carefully traced them with the tips of her fingers.

"Buffy?"

The sound of her name startled her. She turned back to Aggie and mustered up a watery smile. "Thank you. You're right I…I didn't know."

Aggie nodded and gazed at her searchingly. "Don't you want to go inside?"

The air sharpened as Buffy absorbed this information. "Y-you mean it's still open?"

Her great aunt smiled encouragingly. "Yes, sweetie, it's still open. Your mother and I owned this together back when she lived in Sunnydale—I just never had the talent that she brought to it. I still own it now, but I've hired someone to do all of the book-keeping and smart stuff for me." Aggie opened the gallery door and motioned for Buffy to enter. Buffy stepped forward—

And was plunged into night.

She whipped back around, disoriented by the clap of unexpected change from light to dark, only to see sunlight pouring in through the open doorway.

And then she was abruptly encased by the full illusion of night as Aggie closed the door behind herself.

Buffy's breath caught as she looked around in wonder. It was like stumbling upon a whole new world. The walls and ceiling were a tapestry of the glittering night sky, somehow creating a feeling of warmth with all of the subtle hues of dark blues and purples and violets swirling within the ink black. She looked up fully at the ceiling as small white-gold stars and a half-circle moon caught her attention, realizing that they were used as lighting for the gallery as well as part of the sky scene. The carpeted floor below her contained lit pathways. Little glowing light-posts, that stood ankle-high, were evenly spaced to lead to the walls that contained dozens of canvases. Each canvas had a small, overhanging light shining on it to showcase it individually. And tinkling, instrumental music played softly from somewhere, creating an ethereal enchantment, like a fairy's playground.

Buffy finally remembered she needed to blink when her eyes started to sting.

"Well… What do you think?"

Buffy turned to Aggie, whose face was glowing in the filtering light. "I don't… This was my mom's?"

Nodding, Aggie informed her, "Nothing's changed except the canvases. Everything else is as Joyce had made it to be. This was her place, her fantasy world brought to life."

Buffy absorbed everything around her voraciously, feeling that at any moment this place would be snatched out of her grasp.

It was all calm and serenity, giving the feel of security that nothing bad would ever happen in this place—which was odd. The dark was usually depicted as where the veil was dropped and the sins and bedevilment that the harsh light of day would have accusingly brought forth and condemned, could secretly roam free.

But not here.

This was everything right and good and innocent.

Its' message was clear.

Not everything that came from the dark was bad or sinful. Some of the most profound purities resided in the night because they were less sought out, more deeply hidden, and less understood.

Her mother had depicted this in her creation of an eternally dark haven.

Eternal night.

"I'd been saving up for years, from about the time little Joycie was six and until she was eighteen. At first I was thinking of paying her way through college, but about around the time she turned twelve, I knew, I knew she had talent and could make it. So with my money, and a loan I've paid off since then, I bought this place for her eighteenth birthday, so she could fill it with her passion." Aggie smiled in reminiscence.

"And it flourished under her care. We had discovered that a lot of Sunnydale had hidden depths and talents the likes of which no one had seen." She giggled, Buffy presumed, about a private joke. "So we had a local theme. We'd let everyone from Sunnydale who wanted to submit a piece of artwork do just that, and we'd showcase it for a trial-run of two weeks to see how people reacted. But," she amended, "within reason. Over the years I've had some odd ones come in. Recently, this boy tried to get his piece called _Yellow Crayon on White Paper_ submitted. It was a piece of paper, with near-invisible scribbles, crazy-glued to a canvas," she said in monotone. She then had a look of sympathy. "The poor guy looked so crushed when I told him I couldn't accept his submission, that I gave him three passes for free non-alcoholic drinks and nachos at the Bronze. That seemed to make him hap-"

"She just gave all of this up?"

Aggie fell silent, her face going blank with surprise. She started to speak, then stopped, then started up again, talking slowly and carefully. "She went to LA and met your father, sweetie. By the time she had you, her life was there with her family. Most people outgrow their hometowns and want to start somewhere new."

'_But why didn't she come back here when the whole American dream-family thing didn't work? Why did she_ _stay in LA, getting one crappy job after another, when she could have come back here to a job that she loved, and to an aunt that was more than supportive?'_

Buffy's thoughts were abruptly interrupted when a side door was opened, letting out a flood of fluorescent lighting, as a young man with dark hair, glasses, and a business suit came out. He startled when he saw them.

"M-miss Lowan. I-I did not expect you to come into the gallery today."

British guy number two.

Aggie nodded and gestured to Buffy. "I wanted to show-"

"Miss Summers!" The man shook his head and briskly came forth. "Of course, how rude of me." He extended his hand out to Buffy. She hesitantly placed her hand in his and let him give her a few pumps of the wrist. "I'm Wesley Wyndom Pryce, the gallery manager. Miss Lowan has told me much about you."

She discreetly pulled her hand from his. His over-enthusiasm and the way he recognized her, without having had been introduced beforehand, gave her the wiggins. "Nice meeting you, um, Mr. Pryce."

He gave her a reconciliatory smile. "Please feel free to call me Wesley, Miss Summers."

"Okay, Wesley… And you can call me Buffy," she said politely.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Su- Buffy."

"Wes, you could go home early if you feel like it," Aggie offered. "I'll close up after Buffy and I are through looking at everything. I have a feeling she and I will be here for a while."

Even with his hair so meticulously sculpted and his suit so crisp and lint-free, the man managed to look completely ruffled. "I- Well, that is, I," he floundered, "…need to do a few things around here."

"Oh, Wes, you old stick in the mud, leave it to us and go ahead and enjoy your evening."

He opened his mouth to respond, but hesitated and seemed to lose his nerve. "Yes, thank you, Miss Lo- _Aggie._" He awkwardly motioned to the door he came through. "I'll just get my briefcase and wallet that I left in there and be on my way."

Aggie smiled sympathetically, Buffy imagined she did so because of the complete lost case this guy seemed to be, and nodded.

Wesley gave them a nod in return and left for the private room, but abruptly stopped in the doorway and turned to them. "You know, I just realized that I left my briefcase in complete disarray. So I'll just be in here organizing it. I'll shut the door to better set the ambiance for Buffy's viewing pleasure of the artwork."

A little bewildered, Aggie replied, "Okay," and Wesley promptly shut the door, taking with him the bright light.

Buffy turned to Aggie. "What's up with that guy?"

Aggie shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. "I hired him a few months ago because he's pretty good when it comes to business and organization skills, but, sadly, he lacks people skills. I'm hoping to get him out of his shell. I've been trying to give him advice and hints by letting him leave work early, so that he can go mingle with the young people, but he doesn't seem to have taken my advice yet."

Buffy nodded her agreement of Aggie's assessment.

"Well," Aggie stated amiably, "let's take a look around, shall we?"

* * *

"Good Lord, that was close," Wesley breathlessly spoke to himself in the empty viewing room. He took a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped at his brow, and then placed it back into its' proper place.

He eyed the disarray on the glass table before him.

The private collection that Agatha Lowan kept locked—and for good reason—eyed him back.

Quiet literally in some cases.

He bent and started putting the various sketches and oil paintings and other mixed-media artworks back into the large art folders that they belonged into.

It wouldn't do for him to be caught snooping through the late Joyce Lowan's private art collection of demonic creatures. He was already failing miserably at the other task appointed to him as it was. Being caught investigating things that were not top priority in his mission here in Sunnydale would surely be the tip of the ice burg and alert his superiors to what he had yet to establish.

And so, drawings of demonic eyes of various colors, ridged brows, horns, scales and other bizarre extremities steadily disappeared from view.

* * *

Buffy and Aggie had been in the gallery for about an hour, and Buffy had meticulously looked at each individually displayed painting thoroughly.

"How do they come up with this stuff?" Buffy asked in amazed curiosity, looking at a scenery landscape of a place that looked like it couldn't possibly exist anywhere—even almost seeming to exceed the imagination.

Aggie looked at the painting that Buffy had stopped in front and gave a mysterious smile. "Some artists live in different realms than us normal people."

Buffy absentmindedly nodded.

"So, do you have a favorite yet?" Aggie asked from the observing bench she sat on.

Buffy walked around, an searching look in her eyes, her pupils wide and fully dilated because of the soft canopy of darkness surrounding them. She finally looked over to Aggie, small frown lines appearing in her brow. "I don't know. There are some really good ones here, but…"

Aggie got up from the bench and walked over to the side door to the room that Wesley had been in earlier before he fumblingly left. She opened it and stepped in. Her voice drifted from inside, "Come in here, Buffy. I think I know what you're looking for."

Buffy walked into a rather small, brightly lit room that contained a leather sofa, a glass coffee table, a wide filing cabinet, and a large safe. Aggie turned to the filing cabinet and pressed the release lever on a drawer, making it roll outwards. She took a large folder out of it and closed it.

"Here." Aggie sat on the sofa and opened the folder. Buffy sat next to her and peered down at sketches, all labeled with Joyce's signature. Some of them were landscapes, but most were portraits. "Joyce liked to draw what she knew. She had a very realistic style; almost photograph-like."

Buffy reverently turned through every aged paper, that had been kept in mint condition over the years, trying to imagine her mother's steady hand, with pencil gripped, scratching away until the papers breathed life and became something of beauty.

Aggie stopped her when she came to a colored sketch of a young couple in dated clothing. The man had light brown hair and was 'dressed to the nines' in a dark gray suit, trilby hat, and a salmon colored tie. He had an arm thrown comfortably over the woman's shoulders. She had wavy blonde hair and was wearing a conservative, yet feminine, white dress and a dazzling smile.

"That's my brother, Thomas Lowan." Aggie turned her face to look smilingly into Buffy's eyes. "Your grandpa. And that's your Grandma Meredith."

Buffy stared at the sketch. She did recognize them. Her mom had kept an old photograph of her parents framed at their apartment in LA—and it looked exactly like this sketch. Buffy could remember catching her mom looking wistfully at the mantle where the photo had been kept, and then when Joyce would see Buffy watching her, she would always be extra mom-ish and cuddly—after having been reminded that she had lost her parents at the age of two because of an automobile accident. The photograph had gone to rest with Joyce.

Buffy cleared her throat. "My mom used to talk about them." She turned to look at Aggie and said to be understood, "You know…as if she had known them. But…she couldn't have because she had lost them so young." Her voice caught as she compared her own situation with that of her mom's. Her gaze implored Aggie's. "Did you tell her about them? Did you give her memories to have of them?"

"Yes, sweetie," Aggie said with a fragmented smile of happy remembrance and loss. "Your grandpa and his wife were good people. Losing my big brother was one of the hardest things to have happened to me." She looked down. "Especially knowing Joycie would never get to know the kindness of their hearts." She picked up the paper and held it out to Buffy. "Here, you should have this."

Buffy softly took the sketch of her grandparents from Aggie, realizing that her pile was growing when she remembered the sketch at the mansion in her room. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome, my darling girl."

Buffy smiled brokenly at Aggie, unable to speak as she heard her mother's soothing tones cooing the same endearments, weaving the same feelings within Buffy of security and love. She turned back to the sketches, swiping covertly at one of her eyes when she felt moisture build.

She idly admired the rest of the images, tracing the curving strokes of charcoal and pencil and the blends of kaleidoscopic colors. But her attention was arrested by the last sketch in the pile.

"Who's this?" she asked Aggie, as she swept her gaze over a handsome young man with glasses, blue jeans and a form fitting white t-shirt, who had the edge of one sleeve rolled up to hold a pack of cigarettes, giving him the look of a ruffian. He cut an imposing image with his self-assured posture resting against a book shelf that tapered off as it neared the edge of the paper. And his dark gaze was one of the utmost intensity.

"_That_," Aggie said, sounding surprised, "is Rupert 'Ripper' Giles." She muttered something that sounded to Buffy like 'forgot that was there.'

Buffy's gaze stayed intently on the drawn figure, as she saw a flash of the sketch of her young mother that lay in her dresser come to mind. "Did my mom know him? Or was he just one of her subject models?"

"He was a friend of Joyce's. He was from England and left to go live back there some time ago. I don't think Joyce and he stayed in contact after Joyce moved to LA," Aggie said, as if wanting to close the subject.

Buffy's imagination ran wild, and what she was thinking made sense and fit. This guy from England came to Sunnydale and swept her mom off her feet. They had a whirlwind romance full of passion, drawing sketches of each other and whatnot, only for something to go wrong. So wrong that Joyce left for LA and Rupert left for England. Thoughts of England made her suddenly think of Spike, prompting Buffy to make a connection between the two Englishmen. She asked, "England? Is Spike related to this guy? Like his son or nephew or something?"

A very unsettling thought of her mom and this Rupert guy having Spike as a lovechild flared to mind. The idea of Spike being related to her by blood kin was something she did not want to contemplate.

Aggie laughed, "No, Spike isn't related to Rupert, and he's much too old to be his son. Goodness, he'd have a coronary if he heard you even suggest that. He and Rupert had never gotten along well."

Buffy let out a breath, surprised at the vast momentum of her relief. "Oh. So, you just, um, happen to know a lot of English people?" And how old exactly _was _Spike? she thought. He looked like he couldn't be older than his late twenties or early thirties.

Aggie looked contemplative. "I guess I do." She gave a huff of a laugh and moved to put the sketches back in the folder. Buffy gazed at the bottom of the pile, where she knew Rupert's portrait was to be.

She wanted the mystery man to be him. With a vehemence that unnerved her, she wanted it to be him.

Because then she wouldn't have to worry about it being someone else, she thought, as she envisioned a face with breathtaking angles, lush pillowy lips, and eyes as deep and unfathomable as the ocean.

* * *

Four days later, a very harassed looking Spike lent against an ancient oak tree in Restfield Cemetery, taking healthy drags off of his cigarette and blowing smoke into the cool night air.

"Rough night?"

Spike cut his gaze over to Clem and glared. "Try rough _week_."

The loose-skinned demon winced in sympathy. "You owe someone kittens?"

"No," Spike scoffed.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"No."

"_Oh_," Clem hummed in what Spike thought was an aggravating way. "So it's one of _those nights_." Clem ticked off his wrinkled and clawed fingers as he spoke. "You're a great catch. She didn't deserve you. Anyone who makes you feel inferior isn't worth it. If I was a female I'd totally date you. And…" He stopped, obviously struggling for another Spike-pick-me-up. "Oh yeah. Your great personality well suits your compact, yet well-muscled body. Do you feel better now?"

"No."

"I see. Then this is one of those heavy-duty stings that you go on sometimes." Clem sighed. "Is tonight supposed to be one of your anniversaries with her or did you see something totally ordinary that suddenly reminded you of her?"

Spike scowled in confusion and crushed his spent cigarette under the heel of one of his black Doc Martens. He hadn't really been giving his full attention to Clem, he had just replied 'no' in what seemed like the right pauses while something—someone—else consumed his thoughts.

Consumed his thoughts, tore at his composure, and ate at his very being.

Or, wait, it was he who wanted to eat at her being. His mistake.

"No."

"'No, what?" Clem asked. "No, it's not one of your anniversaries with her or, no, nothing ordinary reminded you of her?"

"The first and the second."

"So this isn't about your ex?"

"Looks like," Spike said as he closed his eyes and slumped further against the tree he was leaning on.

He suddenly sprang up to stand at his full height, a mad fervor in his eyes. "It bloody well doesn't make sense, Clem. The second I came close enough to soddin' greet the little bint somethin' just," he raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head, "_happened_ to my demon. It woke up. She- the bloodlust is there for her. But not for anyone else 'cos I've been huntin' all week, checkin' to make sure. And still there's _nothing_." He pointed a finger at Clem accusingly. "Except for her."

Spike's eyes went glassy as he dropped his hand and stared into the shadowy depths of the cemetery. "She gives off this scent. It's all…spun sugar and warm apple tarts." He whipped his head back around to look at Clem, his irises flashing gold, his voice gravelly, "But it's the coppery scent that makes her different. It doesn't put me off like all other humans do… It's there. Below her warm, soft skin…seducin' me and tellin' me to want things that I shouldn't," he ended softly, his eyes going back to sky blue.

Clem blinked, breaking his wide-eyed stare. "Who are we talking about?"

Spike lent his head back as a low rumbling sound came out of his throat. "Buffy. Aggie's niece."

"_Oooh_," Clem said in comprehension. "That cute little button that Aggie showed me pictures of a while back?" Spike just looked at him. Clem cleared his throat, "Right. Uh, so… You want to eat her? Is that what I'm getting out of your ramblings?"

'_Eat her_.' The words caused a squirming, tingling sensation in Spike's lower abdomen and threatened to bring his sex to full, straining arousal. Mentioning Buffy, her blood, or compromising her always brought this on.

"Yeh."

"So… Why don't you?" Clem asked in bafflement.

Spike balked. "Because it's Aggie's _niece, _not some stray kitten. I can't just very well off the girl. Aggie would shove a missile up my arse and launch me to the bloody sun."

Clem chuckled at the imagery, but quickly sobered when he saw the serious look on Spike's face. "Why don't you turn her then? That way you'll get what you want and she'll still be around, so maybe Aggie won't be as mad at you," he suggested.

"I—" Spike stopped as he fully absorbed Clem's suggestion. For some reason in the past six days, as long as he had now known Buffy, he had never thought of that option. It had always been don't-drain-girl-dry-and-dead. But it made sense that he wouldn't think to turn her—he hadn't, after all, turned anyone since 1976.

And suddenly there was a person he could turn.

A lieu of images, alluring and forbidden, became emblazoned before his eyes.

Buffy as his childe. Her lustrous golden locks wrapped in his hands as he supped from her neck. Her lithe limbs writhing with his own. He, licking trails up and down her sugar, tart skin. Rapture written across her lovely face as he penetrated her with cock and fangs. Blood welling, bruises forming, scratches—marks of his possession. His ownership. She would say, moan, scream 'Sire.' They would reach fulfillment together time and time again. He would hold her and wouldn't be alone, and she would whisper in his ear, "Forever."

But even as a part of him was screaming 'yes, make it so!' another part was shouting 'no' in horror and righteous fury.

Because he knew her. Granted, he had only known her for a little less than a week and had been avoiding direct contact with her, but he observed her. He saw a light in her eyes and an upward curve that Aggie had helped bring back to her pretty pink lips. He saw the sorrow that would take time to heal in her. He saw her laughing with Aggie, and talking, and biting her lip—as he found she did in nervousness—whenever her new school was mentioned. He saw pink flush her cheeks every time he caught her looking at him, and anticipated the acceleration of her heartbeat. And, whenever she was brave enough to hold his gaze, he saw a question for him there, a yearning, making him believe that if he looked long enough into her liquid emerald eyes, he could see the essence of her soul.

So for the same reasons he stopped himself from draining her, he also stopped himself from turning her.

He couldn't stand to see the color from her cheeks drain away, or the veins run cold in her body—and he was certain that he would suffer just as much as Aggie would if her soul were to diminish and leave nothing but a brutal, uncaring creature in its wake.

He knew her…and he cared.

He knew he shouldn't. He was after all a soulless creature. But somewhere along the lines the 'brutal' and 'uncaring' image just didn't fit him anymore.

_It probably happened around the time I started hangin' around with humans and guardin' an unprotected hellmouth by slaying baddies in the cemeteries_, he thought despondently.

"Spike?"

Spike snapped out of his thoughts to find himself slumped to his knees in the grass, his hands sinking into the soft earth. He looked up into Clem's concerned face.

"I can't turn her, mate."

"Hey, that's fine. I was just throwing something out there." Clem scrutinized his face. "You don't look too good, buddy. You've got gaunt purple shadows under your eyes, making you have this whole deader-than-undead thing going on for you."

Spike gave a rueful chuckle as he stood up. "It's hard to sleep when blood's callin' you to work its' will in the very next room." He stopped dusting himself off and frowned. "An' when I do sleep, I wake up from dreams that I can't remember. Every day since Buffy's been here."

Clem made an 'hmm' sound and then said, "Alluring scent, you want to get close to her but at the same time you don't, and mysterious dreams. Maybe it's a spell." His wrinkled face alighted, "Or maybe she has mystical powers. You know, because of the women in her family and all. Or maybe she's part demon. My Cousin Phlegm said the same things about this woman that he was going to date, so he wanted to know if he should still go for it—and I told him he should totally still go for it because she was _hot_."

"Oh, yeh? What happened," Spike asked, intrigued despite himself.

"She turned out to be a real live siren and lured him to her cave and ripped him to shreds with her talons."

Spike gaped. "Bloody hell."

"I know." Clem seemed to think something over. "No one really liked Phlegm, though. So the fam wasn't too shaken up about it."

Giving a derisive snort, Spike replied, "Nice."

"Or, you know what Buffy could be?" Clem started up again.

"Clem?" Spike said.

"Yeah, Spike?"

"Stop helpin' me."

**TBC**

**Author's Note: **Next chapter will bring Buffy to Sunnydale High, a slew of characters will make their first appearances, and Buffy's going to be in for a surprise—and suspicion. Please review, my lovelies. It warms my lil' muses' heart.


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